From Death's Door
by clinkeroo
Summary: I am beginning the re-editing of the novel that I've been planning for years now, including the new prologue, the change of timeline to the more classic literary Bond-Age, and the streamlining of the story I should have done years ago. Thank you.
1. The Arms of Morpheus

_**Chapter One: The Arms of Morpheus**_

The music that evening had been tolerable, even for James Bond's stoic tastes.

It may, however, have had more to do with his company than the performance itself. The dry, but pleasantly warm breezes of the Houston evening caught the four of them as they left the Bayou Palace in the Downtown Theatre district. Houston seemed to lack the particular ambience most American towns wore like a cheap perfume. The constant odours of an industrialized nation with an oily tang to the air, much like Liverpool or Dublin, permeating everything, the food, the buildings, the atmosphere, and even the people. New York, Chicago, Los Angeles, Detroit, even Miami now, had almost a perpetual greyness to them as if the life of the town had been squeezed out of the husks of the great American Meccas. But Felix had been right; Houston was still blissfully free of the sickness.

He'd spent some leave time here years ago, visiting with Felix as he recovered from the vicious attack that left his friend's body and mind scarred, an attack wrought by one of the human monsters Bond had eventually slain. At that time, the city had been small by modern standards, a former cattle town feeling the growing pains of adapting to a modern economy, but now, it was a fusion of towering metal and glass giants. The air, however, had remained fine.

The traditional fortnight of Bond's post assignment leave would be ending soon, two days to be precise. Now, where in the old days, he would have been marking the time until he returned, serving his holiday as if it were penance, the thought of returning to that grey building in Regent's Square filled him with boredom. There were often months between missions; months filled with a sea of paperwork, spaced by range work and training. He'd entertained the thought of requesting some time, that would certainly raise the eyebrows above those damnably clear greys of M's. Spend a few more weeks sharing Felix and Sara's retirement and the company of their family friend, Samantha Maske.

The dry breeze ruffled the ladies' dresses briefly, flipping the comma of black hair above Bond's eyes from the left to the right. Felix handed the keys of his Cadillac Allante to a waiting valet who went about his job with all the speed and gusto of modern youth, very little in other words.

"It's a long ways from the old Studillac, James," Felix had assured him a week ago when he'd picked up Bond at Bush International, fresh from a week's stay at his vacation home in the Bahamas.

"Not bad, he'd replied with a rare, easy smile. "But I would have expected you could have afforded a real automobile, by now." The driving debate had gone on between them since the inception of their friendship so long ago; Felix sticking with his American roots, and Bond beating the path of tried and true European engineering.

Felix Leiter was one of the few people Bond had met professionally that he would consider a close friend. There had been others over the years that had stayed dear to him, such as his chief of staff, Bill Tanner, or the old man himself, but many more had passed on, victims of a lifestyle and a world that pushed people to extremes and then punished them for their servitude.

Sam clutched at Bond's hand, he could feel the long, delicate fingers seek out his own and intertwine within; her natural, close-cropped nails, painted a deep, glossy bloodlike colour for the evening, ever so slightly scraping his palm and sending joyous spasms up his spine. He turned to the woman and shared a brief smile.

Sara and Felix also exchanged a quick glance meant to go unseen by the other couple, but Bond's peripheral reflexes, never completely off guard, had caught the silent communication. It had been Sara's idea to bring the two of them together, against almost violent protest from Felix.

"James is one of the best friends I have in this world, my dear," he'd exclaimed at the time. "But the man is a predator when it comes to the ladies. Even when he's truly enamoured of someone, the damnedest things always seem to happen."

But Sara had persisted.

"Felix, she'd been living with that abusive bastard for almost a decade and in the end, he was the one that threw her out. Do you know what that does to a person's self esteem? A little wonton excitement, a few wonderful nights with a handsome, exotic stranger could be just what the doctor would prescribe."

Felix had learned enough about women over the years to know the fight had been lost before the battle had even been joined. Besides, Sam was pretty enough to keep Bond distracted, and the poor guy had a serious action addiction. If there weren't a gunfight or a pretty lady when he stepped off plane, he'd be bored within the hour.

Samantha Maske would not be James' usual fare to begin with, Leiter knew. She was a thirty-five-year-old grade school teacher whose idea of dangerous living was a room full of fifth graders five minutes before recess. She had little trouble holding the attention of even the fifth grade boys, however. Her dark, black hair hung long and loose about her shoulders, taking a slight in-turn a quarter of the way down her back. Sam was never sycophantic enough to stand there and constantly adjust her locks, as some women are prone to; she was content to let it hang free, with her part always slightly askew. The radiant mane framed a splendid face with watery blue eyes that were a little too far apart for Felix's tastes, a small, but attractive, Anglo-Saxon nose, and a wide mouth with full lips, the bottom of which always seemed to be tucked into her mouth in a nervous, oral fixation.

Her body was not as athletic as many modern women preferred. Rather than the hard muscular arms and torso, Sam had a soft quality. A classic femininity that may have been out of place for recent times, but was well appreciated by men of any age. She had long, gazelle like legs that flowed in long strides beneath her and flawless breasts that called out for attention regardless of her apparel.

Had Felix not been so devoted to Sara Needy, his physical therapist for the last ten years, and his soul mate for the last six months, Sam could have held more than just his attention.

The woman's one flaw was her horrible taste in men. Even before Sara had finally surrendered to Felix's persistent attentions and boyish charms, she would spend many of their three-a day-sessions retelling the horror stories of her friends' personal lives, and Sam's name was always a headliner. As she would manipulate his ever tightening limbs, and what remained of his one leg and arm, Felix would be distracted from the pain by stories of how this poor woman had been made to grovel and apologize for every sorry thing that had ever happened in her ex's life. As Sam grew older, the man had made a habit of visiting the local strip joints and cat houses, and then would return early each morning, smelling of booze and the women from the night before, berating her loudly for not living up to his latest conquest's standards or skill level.

Felix had always marvelled at how quick some people were to criticize a womaniser such as Bond, or even himself in his older days, but they had always respected the women, loved the women on some level, and even prostitutes were afforded common courtesy. Why Sam had waited for the bum to bring a stripper home one night and told her to find a new bed, Felix would never understand. He'd gone into her classroom a few months back as a favour to Sara, told the kids some of his old CIA/Pinkerton stories as part of a career week. The kids had eaten up the stuff, even though Felix had kept the talk of gunplay to a minimum, but what had made the deepest impression on the Texan was the intelligence and beauty of this teacher as she held the attention of, and interacted so naturally with, the children. It was hard to equate this Ms. Maske with the sorry Sam that had filled Sara's stories. The only thing he could figure is that some women were just too conservative in their personal lives, so opposed to change for fear of leaving a secure world, that they were willing to put up with an idiot who would rather eat hamburgers on the road than enjoy the steak he had waiting for him at home.

Felix had picked up James at George Bush International, finally talking him out of picking up a Jag out of one of the rental pools and sharing the Allante with him for the short ride to his new home in Fort Bend County. As Bond had gone to throw his luggage in the boot, he was surprised to find Felix's prosthetic hook tucked neatly into the wheel well.

"Why in God's name are you still holding onto this thing?" he'd quipped.

Felix had laughed as they both got into the Cadillac, "I guess I'm like a ninety-year-old-man with an erection, I might not need it much anymore, but it makes me feel good just having it around."

The airport traffic was gruelling and Felix had more than a few critiques of his fellow drivers to deliver.

"I was suspect of your driving when you had two feet, Felix," Bond had quipped. Felix had known better than to turn the conversation toward James' last assignment, aside from his oaths of secrecy, Bond would have just turned in his final report and would be attempting to distance himself from the adrenaline of the mission.

"So, My Limey Bastard, what do you have in the way of plans for this visit? I'm afraid I'm fresh out of stakeouts and raids this time around."

Bond sat stiffly in a passenger seat that had been built for anything but. He shared a grin with his old friend, but when he looked over, Felix could see the lag in his eyes.

"I need to relax, Felix."

It took Felix a moment to adjust to the idea of James Bond, 007 of Her Majesty's Service, needing to relax.

"What does the mighty James Bond do to relax these days? Houston runs a little short in the high stakes casino market and clubbing all night would be difficult these days even in New York. You can stay out all night, but the clubs just aren't worth spending the time in. I suppose I could jack the ol' Allante up to 100 per hour if that will help."

Bond practically groaned in the seat next to him. "God, no, Felix. I just want to recharge my battery. Share your domesticity for a while. Sleep a few nights with both eyes shut for a change of pace."

Ah, so that was it, thought Felix. It was the old burn infecting his dear friend. In his days with the CIA there had been times where Leiter would sleep for almost an entire day after a particularly gruelling mission.

As James debarked from the aeroplane, Leiter had watched for any signs of physical distress in his friend; James often sacrificed his body, driving it to extremes on a mission, and Sara would want to know if she was going to be convalescing bullet holes, or burns, or broken limbs, but Bond had been physically fine. However, sometimes the mental fatigue was worse than the physical. He'd known more agents, and former agents, over the years that had ended their own lives, than had lost theirs in the line of fire. The job just wears you down, and although Bond was certainly not suicidal, Felix knew his friend needed some "down" time.

But down time was not exactly what Sara had been planning for.

"There is one hair in your ointment, James." Felix had gone on to explain about Sara's grand plan of introducing Sam that evening over dinner. Bond had rolled his eyes and cracked another tired smile.

"Is that what it has come to after all these years, Felix, matchmaking? I know dear Moneypenny's estimations of my prowess have undermined me at the office, but I hardly think I would qualify as a gigolo."

"No, no, nothing like that," Felix had attempted to reassure him. "I've known you well enough, and long enough, to know you don't need help with the ladies, and I hardly believe that Sara wants you to bed her friend and then jet back to the UK with another notch in your gun, I just think she wants the girl to have some fun. And I'm sure once you've met her, having fun will be the first thing that enters your mind."

They drove on for a few miles while Bond digested the idea.

"Felix,"

"Yes, James,"

"I haven't met Sara yet, so I would never be so forward with someone you care about, but would you please relay a message for me. Could you tell her to stick to PHYSICAL therapy?"

Bond's first night at Felix's had consisted of him falling asleep in Felix's den while Sara went on about Felix's physical relapse, and his muscular atrophy.

Somewhere during the story of how his new ultralight prosthetics were not just more functional than the old hook that had replaced his right forearm and the hollow shell where his leg had been. "By flexing his biceps and triceps, Felix can grip and almost write without too much impairment, and he walks without even so much as a limp. He can even run passably; faster than I can, anyway."

While feeling like a lab rat as his anatomy, both flesh and bone, and metal and plastic, were discussed, Felix had become transfixed watching Bond slowly fade away. Bond had positioned himself in a reclining position on a plush, deep blue Cleopatran couch that had been Leiter's since his academy days. His feet were propped up on a knit footstool. He held a brandy snifter cradled by both hands in his lap, unconventionally filled with a small pool of what had been a health dose of a single malt whisky. "One of the few things that Americans seem to do right on a consistent basis," Bond had been known to quip.

As Sara droned on, oblivious to the consciousness of her audience, James's head began to dive ever so slightly forward. You could almost see the tension leaving his body in waves as the baggage of nights of brief and fitful sleep, with days of intense concentration and physical abuse, came home to roost in the body of a mere man. As Bond slipped into the arms of Morpheus, the glass began to take a more precarious perch on the agent's lap.

Sara finally stopped talking with an audible, "Oh," when Felix stood up and fetched the drink lightly from Bond's failing grasp, catching it before it had the chance to spill, demonstrating the smoothness of his aforementioned new prosthetics.

The woman whom Felix had come to think of so dearly positioned herself next to the couch, and with the help of fifteen years of physical therapy experience, plucked up Bond's 76 kilos as easily as he had snared the glass a few moments earlier. She laid him back down on the couch, removed his shoes, and then she garnished him with a blanket to protect against the chill of the ever-present air conditioning, a necessary evil if one wanted to live in Texas.

Felix retired to the master bedroom that featured a beautiful bay window looking out at the distant lights of the distant city. From out here in the country they were little more than candles in the distance. Once again, the hum of the air-conditioner sang to him, accompanied by the whirring of the ceiling fan above. Although he sometimes missed the life James still led, it was a nice feeling to know he was just a normal man, now. He had his little ranch house, a pension from both the Feds and from Pinkerton's, and a woman that filled his every need. Or at least his every honest need.

As if on a mental cue, Sara came into the bedroom to find Felix perched on the end of their bed, looking out at the distant lights.

"He's not at all like you led me to believe, you know," she informed Felix.

So, Felix thought, the Bond magic was working on her as well.

"And how's that, my dear?"

"He seems more sad than hard."

Felix pondered the last for a few moments.

"The part about being a knight they never mention in the fairy tales, the part that is a true bitch, is when you close your eyes and you see the faces of all the dragons you've slain, the gore and the blood of their bodies. And the hard part about saving the world all the time is that you also remember the faces of all the people you didn't save."

Sara shrugged at this. "Well someone else is going to have to save the world tonight because he's sleeping like a log."

They arose at seven the next morning to find that at some point during the evening Bond had awoken and dragged himself into the guestroom. Sara took Felix through his morning stretches in their in-ground pool, a wonderful side benefit and tax write off for both her profession and his ailments.

At ten o'clock, Bond had been asleep for more than twelve hours, and the two of them decided to head into town.

* * *

After thirteen-and-a-half hours, Bond awoke. He laid stirring for a few moments, listening to the air conditioning drone on, and taking a physical inventory of his body. Starting with his toes and working his way up, Bond tensed his muscles and then slowly released them. It was a relaxation technique he'd learned from his dear friend, Tiger Tanaka, on one of his many trips to Japan.

He arose from the bed, and straightened the sheets and pillow with all the precision of an officer. Bond then lowered himself to the floor and did his morning routine of agonizingly slow sit-ups until his abdominal muscles screamed for release. Then he switched to the equally slow push-ups with his hands off to the sides, half again the width of his shoulders. The scalding hot water of the personal shower adjoining the guest room was a welcome, old friend to Bond's weathered face, and then the equal shock of the coldest possible spray chewed away the last of the weariness from his bones.

Now, wide-awake, Bond strapped on his swimming trunks, and padded out into the kitchen area of the house. Felix had left a note on the kitchen counter saying that he and Sara would be back before too long and to make himself at home.

"Mighty hospitable of you, pardner," Bond muttered to himself in a more than passable imitation of the local drawl.

London, Bond knew, would be miserable right now. It was July, and the humidity would be unbearable, cold and wet in the mornings, and by afternoon, a damp living thing engulfing you in its suffocating arms. But as he stepped outside onto the deck that stretched the entire length of the back of the house (complete with the ever-present American barbecue grill), the boards were warm beneath his feet and the sun beat down upon his skin with all of its ferocity.

James Bond took little time to dive beneath the waters, taking a huge breath of air as he stepped off the deck and into the pool. He took four laps of the pool underwater, taking Olympic kick-turns with each new lap. The water was refreshing against his body as he sliced through the warm pool. There was a time when he could have swum for minutes without coming up for air. Oh, how Kissy would laugh if she could see him now with his cigarette-laden lungs barely able to hold his breath for a scant two minutes. When he burst to the surface, it was a defiant gesture, almost surrender. He thought about how well he'd felt after leaving Shrublands all those years ago. Bond seemed to remember M mentioning the place had closed, but certainly there were other clinics about; the Germans were mad about the things. For the first time this leave, Bond began to contemplate an extension. Purge his body and his mind, all that claptrap.

"Care for some company?"

Bond turned toward the feminine voice, wiping the chlorinated water from his eyes.

"That depends on who might be asking?"

The sun was behind the woman, highlighting her frame, while at the same time disguising her features, from Bond. Her hair was dark and her form…. Felix had once commented that women from the Southern states in the U.S. were corn fed, and that this accounted for their generous proportions. Bond had learned to appreciate women from all about the globe, of many shapes and curvaceous sizes, but there were still women of classic form that could take his breath away.

"My name is Samantha Maske, but I much prefer Sam."

The woman was still disguised from the sun, but Bond could make out the towel she now shed. He took in a tiny breath, thinking for a moment she was nude beneath, but it was only a flesh-coloured bathing suit, he realised with relief. He was hardly prudish, but he liked his women to be a little slower than the cars he drove.

"And you would be Mr. Bond, Mr. James Bond. The man whom Sara seems to think will sweep me off my feet and make me forget all my troubles. Is that true, Mr. Bond?"

"Guilty as charged, I'm afraid." Why wouldn't the damn woman step out of the light? Then he realised she was well aware of his dilemma, and that she was purposefully hiding herself from him, teasing him." She seems to think you would be my tonic as well."

The woman on shore gave a throaty laugh and cocked a hip to one side.

"Well, I have to admit, the accent is adorable, and the goods look pretty fair from where I'm standing, but you've got more scars on your body than a porcupine in heat."

The frivolity of their conversation dulled for Bond. Mentioning the wounds covering his frame had made him feel exposed and reminded him of his true world, the one he was so desperately trying not to think of.

Sam must have sensed the change in his attitude for she abandoned her game and dove into the pool. A few graceful, gliding strokes beneath the waves and she broke the surface next to him.

Felix had come far from doing her justice; she was exquisite, and once again the thoughts of his other life faded away. He was on leave, a holiday, and it was about time he started acting like it, and not like some schoolboy who could get his feelings trampled at a whim.

She slicked the long dark hair in back of her, framing herself for a moment next to him with her hands in the air. Sam was watching his face again, he knew, making sure her appearance was having the proper effect on him, which it was.

"If you'll excuse a little Southern curiosity, it's something of an extension of the infamous Southern hospitality." She stepped closer to him and reached out one close-cropped fingernail to trace the scar along his cheek "Well, she said you would be dark and mysterious, that's certainly the truth."

"We aims to please, Miss," he replied.

She carried on as if he hadn't spoken, "I know that you're a former colleague of Felix's, some type of foreign national." She was circling him now, in the water, as if stalking prey. The two of them had begun to migrate to the deeper end of the pool and she easily kept pace around him with graceful strides from her long legs. Bond couldn't help but begin to wonder what those legs would feel like wrapped around him.

"Something like that," he replied.

"A spy?" She was playing again.

"Nothing so glamorous, I'm afraid." He had found it easy over the years to lie about his profession. It was natural now. "I work for a company in London called Transworld Consortium. Felix and I did some work together years ago when my company hired the Pinkertons for an insurance investigation on a lost shipment."

She smiled again.

"If you say so."

Sam suddenly reached out an arm and shoved down on the top of Bond's head. They were deep now, and he went under easily. She drove him down with both arms, but he recovered quickly from the momentary surprise. While underwater, he planted himself feet firmly on the bottom of the pool and cupped his hands beneath her feet. When she tensed her leg muscles, he threw up his arms and hurled her from the water.

Bond surfaced quickly, in time to watch her not so gracefully re-enter the water. She gave a playful yell and began to swim toward the shallow end again. He followed in quick pursuit. As she reached the far end of the pool, he grasped her foot in mid stride and pulled her toward him.

He realised that he was laughing as well as he pulled her struggling form into his arms. His arms reached back around her well-formed, broad shoulders and she stopped struggling, yielding to him. They were now both on their knees in the shallows and as he drew her to him he brought his mouth down hard upon her wide, pouting lips. There was playfulness and passion in their kiss as their tongues briefly encountered one another.

Suddenly she put her hands to his chest and pushed him an arm's length away.

"I'm sorry, you must think I'm terribly easy. Really, I don't normally act like this." She was being sincere, but there was still a glint in her eye, as if to say that, this once, she didn't mind acting like "this."

"Miss Maske," he assured her." We are only going to have this short time together. Sara and Felix will be back soon, and in a week, I'll be back on an aeroplane for London. I'd believe I'd like to know you better, maybe for no better reason than I like the way you smile, but to do so, I'm afraid we're going to have to make the time count. As for being "easy," you practically drowned me just now."

She smiled at this and pulled him in close once again. "Then you must require some mouth-to-mouth resuscitation."

After a few minutes, his hands found their way to her suit ties, and as his desperate fingers found purchase upon her firm, bare breast, he could feel her nipple already hard beneath his fingers from the cool water of the pool. Later, as she trembled in his arms, Bond realised one axiom had held true; everything was bigger in Texas.

By the time Sara and Felix returned from shopping, the couple had made the most of their time, indeed, neither of them realising they had been watched from the moment Bond had stepped outside.

The singer had been blind, and Italian, and James Bond had the distinct feeling the choice of venues for the evening had been Sara's. He and Felix were both attired in dinner jackets, simple cuts that were not too distant cousins of the ones they'd both worn at Royale a lifetime ago. Sara was elegantly adorned with a silver full-length skirt and a paisley top. She was beautiful in Felix's eyes, Bond knew, but Sara was far from his own type. Her face was pinched, and from the musculature of her forearms she looked more like a practitioner of the hurting arts, than the healing ones.

Sam, though, was astonishing. Even with her simple taste in clothing, a strapped grey dress that went three quarters the way down her thighs, she shone brightly.

They'd only been a few rows back from the stage, and the performer's powerful voice was close enough to lift the hairs on the back of Bond's neck. It was a mix of opera standards and contemporary songs, and although the occasional squeal of an electric guitar made Bond wince, it was a stunning performance.

He and Felix sat next to one another, with the ladies playing the parts of bookends. At one point, Felix leaned over to Bond and whispered in his ear, "He looks pretty good for a blind guy, I doubt seriously if all these women are here for just the music.

Bond looked about, and it was true, the audience was filled with women of all ages with a few token men, most of whom looked as if they were along for the ride. Sam's and his hands were entwined upon the armrest they shared. Although the music was more than adequate, his enjoyment was heightened greatly by his company. Sam would pause during points of the evening and look over at Bond in an appreciative manner. Their time in the pool had only been the day before, but the two of them had been nearly inseparable since then. She'd told him of her life, a life that appealed to Bond in its plainness; her upbringing in suburban Houston, her college days in Waco, and her habitually bad taste in men. He had told her of London, of his flat, of May, his watchdog of a maid that truly was his Scottish treasure, and of the places he'd travelled with Transworld Consortium.

The four of them had eaten at a restaurant called Maxim's the evening before. Bond had long believed that when in a foreign country, it was always best to eat the cuisine of that country. Under this operating theory, Bond had ordered the jambalaya, a Cajun rice dish that was awash with every meat the kitchen had been capable of throwing in: mussels, crayfish, shrimp, chicken, and alligator sausage, all swimming in a tomato-pepper sauce that left his lips scorched, but pleased.

Sara had drug off Felix for a game of billiards with much protest from Leiter, yet another guise to allow Bond and Sam some time alone.

"Dammit, I want some quality time, too," Felix had muttered just loud enough for the two of them to hear.

"I'll give you more than enough quality time when we get home, you old man," Sara had told him.

Sam had leaned over her aperitif as if she were about to share a secret.

"In a few weeks, the schools will be out for Christmas break. Chuck and I were going to fly out to Colorado for some skiing, but since he's probably given my ticket to the bimbo of the week, I was thinking of spending the fortnight in Europe."

Until that time, Bond had been considering their relationship as having a fuse that was slowly dwindling away to powder. Whether he was granted an extended leave or not, they would have to part ways eventually, there was no place in either of their worlds for the other one's lifestyle. But there was something whimsical to the idea he liked. The thought of showing Sam London appealed to him, they could even take the whirlwind tour of the continent. He knew it would be more than thrilling for a woman who openly admitted to having never been further from home than the Yucatan in Mexico. The idea of watching May get territorial with his flat also brought a smile to his face; he remembered fondly how flustered she became when Tiffany Case had come to roost for a few months.

He had rules about women, and one of the primary ones was that his flat was off limits, and this had always set well with May. Those rules had been created long ago, though, and had always applied to the women he'd met on assignments. It was hard enough dragging his luggage home with him after a particularly gruelling mission, how could he be expected to tote women as well? It was a matter of not wanting his professional life to invade his island of sanity. But Sam was far apart from that professional life, and the thought of her curled up next to him in front of his fireplace brought a smile to his face, it would certainly help take the chill out of a wet London summer.

"Does a smile mean you wouldn't mind having company back home?" she queried.

"A smile means you should ask me again tonight, after the concert." She smiled at this, knowing what his answer would be. Bond reached across the table, and cradling her face in his hands, kissed her hard on that beautifully wide mouth.

She never would get to ask him again.

As the four of them stood at the curb of the Bayou Palace, the crowd dispersing about them as they awaited the return of the valet, Bond felt contentment. For the first time in years, he was relaxed and at ease. As he breathed in the gentle breeze and reached into his breast pocket for the old gunmetal case where his Morlands lay waiting, he knew that Felix had been right about down time.

Felix's Allante came jerking slowly along from the valet lot. The poor boy behind the wheel, Bond thought, not only did he have to contend with Felix's specially designed stick shift, but the floor pedals and clutch had been altered as well to suit Leiter's use of only one leg while driving.

James Bond released Samantha's hand to turn and watch the car approach. His Ronson lighter found his hand and he cupped his fingers about the cigarette to deaden the wind.

The shot was from a target rifle. The wind and the sounds of the crowd muffled the rapport well enough that Bond couldn't identify the make or calibre. Having been under fire enough in his life, Bond's initial response was quick.

He whirled to grasp Sam, to pull her back to the shelter of the theatre, but the look on Sam's face was beyond surprise. Her hands were framing a hole in the abdomen area of her dress, a hole with a growing sea of red pooling across the surrounding grey cloth.

Her eyes made contact with his one last time.

"James…?" she sputtered, now holding her bloodstained hands palms up toward him, as if asking him what had happened.

The second blast rang out. This one was the kill shot. The crowd had now begun to realise shots were being fired and had started to scatter and panic. The second shot struck Sam in the forehead, slamming her to the pavement like a child's discarded, broken toy doll. The blood sprayed from the exit wound, splattering across Sara's horrified face as she had been standing behind her friend, slightly to one side.

By now, instincts had completely taken over. Leiter already had a Beretta 9mm in his good hand while his prosthetic arm pointed to a warehouse about seventy meters away.

"James, third floor, second window from the left."

Bond hand reached for the well-worn holster under his arm, but the Walther was back at Felix's, on holiday as well.

Quickly recognising his friend's frustration, Leiter tossed James Bond his 9mm.

"Watch them," Bond yelled to Leiter over the din of the screaming concert goers, looking down momentarily at the lifeless form that had been Sam, and the bloodstained face of Sara who now cradled her friend's limp head in her arms as she kneeled on the pavement.

"Get the bastard, James," Felix spat.


	2. Exit Pursued by a Bear

Chapter Three: Exit Pursued by a Bear   
  


For weeks now, Randy O'Neil had been practicing his next moves. As his hands mechanically went about their prearranged tasks of quickly breaking down the Heckler and Koch MSG3 rifle, stock, and stand, his eyes kept track of the approaching figure of the Brit. 

Bond had just cleared the traffic on the street separating them as O'Neil completed the dismantling of the H&K. He was not to take the weapon with him; instead, he threw the pieces of the rifle into its companion case whose lining was filled with a magnesium-based compound. After peeling off his target gloves and placing them next to the rifle, he pressed the delayed ignition button on the small wick he'd been given and tossed the matchbook sized device into the case as he'd been instructed. 

"God dammit," he muttered to himself as he checked Bond's position again. The guy moved pretty well for someone his age, the newly minted assassin realised. The Brit had removed his dinner jacket as he approached the twelve-foot fence surrounding the warehouse. In what seemed to O'Neil as one fluid movement, the oncoming man slung his jacket over the circled barbed wire topping the fence, climbed the barrier in two quick strides, rolled over his jacket at the top, and landed on his feet on the far side. 

"British diplomat my ass," the boy spat, mocking the words of the woman who had given him this assignment. He could not sit around and watch the man any further. The target was closing on him quickly, and he had very specific instructions not to engage him. Besides, he didn't want to be anywhere near the gun case when the two-minute fuse ran down, the damn things burned as bright and as hot as a blast furnace. He had three possible escape routes from the building from which he chose the easiest and most direct. 

The warehouse had worn many hats over the years. It had stood since the 1940's when it had entered the world as a factory for the production and storage of dried milk. There was still a sour smell to the place, too, either that, or the boy's imagination had been dwelling on the building for too many days. Its most recent occupant had been a tool and dye shop that had gone under a few years ago. The ground floor was a cavernous six and a half acres of open space with a few offices scattered about for the foremen. Here and there were the strewn remains of the drill presses and boring mills that couldn't be sold when bankruptcy had been declared. The second floor, where Randy now fled the room where he'd committed his first and last murder, was all office space. The second floor hallway circled the entire building and overlooked the work floor like a catwalk. This way, he presumed, the management was never too far separated from the guts of the business, a constant reminder, as well as providing them with great oversight as to what was going on down on the floor. 

"Know your surroundings," Gibbons had told them in the deserts of Syria. "It gives you a great edge when you become the stalkee instead of the stalker. A sniper, once the shot is taken, is almost always outnumbered. Have secondary weapons, and be ready to use them, but the keys to your survival will be maintaining as many edges as you can keep over your opposition. The easiest of these, is to study and know your surroundings." 

Randy O'Neil's education as a discriminate killer had begun just after his fifteenth birthday, when he'd been sent to Ireland under the auspices of his father, Gregory O'Neil. His father was a die hard Sein Finn man who had been very successful in raising hundreds of thousands of pounds in the United States to help support the party back in Ireland. His father was a bit soft, however. He believed there could be non-aggressive solutions to the problems confronting their homeland, even though there had been more than a hundred-year history of armed resistance now. How the man thought the Brits would just give away their jewel after all the spilled blood, Randy would never understand. Gregory had supported the cessation of armed resistance in August of 1994, and had been enthralled with the idea of his son travelling to a peaceful Ireland. The party had paid for his flight, and also sponsored the youth hostel he'd stayed in while in Belfast. 

The Sein Fein men he'd met in Ireland, some of the higher-ups in the Republican Army, had a great influence on the already impressionable mind they'd found in the fifteen-year-old son of their great American ally. He'd been in Ireland in September of 1995, and had been there in person to watch Gerry Adams reject the declaration of the British when they demanded that the IRA surrender their arms. 

Those brave men who were actually fighting the battle became his true heroes. Tom Barry, who ran the hostel where young Randy spent his days, was the great, great grandson of one of the original guerrilla warriors that had raised street warfare to an art form. He'd filled Randy with four generations worth of stories of the armed rebellion, and three days before Randy was to leave for the United States, he offered him the opportunity to become involved himself. 

"We need people to form a strong network of support," he'd told the boy. 

"Like my father?" Randy had asked, not being too thrilled with the prospects of becoming a professional beggar like his old man. 

Barry had simply shaken his head. 

"Your father provides a valuable service to the cause, but although his heart is in the right place, his hands are not. He's second generation outside the homeland and does what he does out of patriotism. An honourable goal, but one lacking when it comes to physically giving of yourself, to put your life and soul in danger. Your father didn't grow up on the streets of Belfast, getting kicked to pieces by Brit goon squads, hav'n his own pa come home one day white-faced because the English wanted to torture betraying words from his mouth. You, my lad, you could be that type of man." 

This was one of the first times in the boy's life he'd been referred to as a man, without the prefix of "young" having been applied. The significance was not lost upon him. 

"What do you want me to do then?" Barry smiled at this, the fish had been baited and hooked, just as he'd done with countless others at the "hostel". 

"There comes times when there are missions (Barry stressed this word, taking glee in watching the adventure flare in Randy's eyes) that need to be carried out overseas. Our enemies are on guard in Ireland, and they're none to at ease in London, but when they go abroad, they relax. They become…. vulnerable." 

"An assassin…you want me to be a hit man?" 

"No." Here, Barry was stressful. "We want you to be a soldier. You would carry a rank, you would be trained in weaponry, and you would be a true patriot in every sense. Hands on, real world stuff." 

A brigadier of the IRA, the boy thought. At a time when most of his friends back home were worried about scoring Pearl Jam tickets and making the varsity football team, he would be a troop in a century old war to free the Irish homeland for democratic rule. 

"How?" Simple and direct, his soul had been sold. 

"This time next year, the summer of your sixteenth birthday, you will once again be our guest. Your father will receive such good reports of your stay that he will be honoured to have you visit again, he'll see it as a chance to improve his standing within the party. Hell, we'll even send you home with an autographed picture of Gerry Adams and John Hume so he can hang it above the old mantle. When you arrive, you'll go through the equivalent of what your fellow Americans call boot camp. You will become familiar with not just the tools of the trade, but with the history of the struggle itself. You will work among heroes, and maybe even become one yourself." 

The picture hadn't ended up above the non-existent mantle, but instead resided in his father's study above the senior O' Neil's writing desk. In February of the next year, Gregory had already agreed to let Randy return to the homeland when the IRA announced it would resume military action against Great Britain. 

That year had been filled with dreams of glory. Randy let his friendships back home wither and die unattended, becoming an outcast at his school, a shadow who never spoke and just blended into the surroundings. His school councillor at Sam Houston High attributed the change to a natural stage of social development, after all, the grades were still high, and the boy was absolutely dominating his history courses. He spent his free hours working out at the school track or weight room and then onto the firing range with the Glock he'd begged his father into giving him for his sixteenth birthday. 

When he reunited with Tom the next summer, he only ended up spending a few days in Ireland. Barry wouldn't even tell him where the training was going to take place, he only knew it would be somewhere in the Middle East. 

The four weeks he spent in what he found out later to be Syria were full of painful, but exhilarating, memories. There were five other boys snuck out of Ireland with him, and not one of them was an Irish national. They were all referred to as Tom's Boys, and had all been guests at the hostel at one time or another. Two of them were Canadian, one English, one Australian, and one was Slavic, from some dot country in middle Europe Randy couldn't even pronounce. 

The course they were put through had been gruelling and intense. Their days began at five in the morning and ended as late as one or two the morning of the next day. They rested during meals and brief latrine breaks, but otherwise, it was a steady diet of man-to-man combat, rifle training, strategy sessions, and tactical analysis of different possible situations. During his time there, he'd made several calls home to his father to assure him he was having a wonderful time touring the homeland. Tom routed the calls through Dublin, he'd even been provided with a few postcards filled out beforehand, and then posted from Ireland over the course of weeks. 

When he eventually returned home to Houston, Randy's hands and heart had become deeply calloused. The distancing he'd felt from his peers the previous year had now become a canyon; he was a man amongst boys. As he walked down the halls of his school his junior year of high school, he would analyse each person he passed, assessing weak points and possible take down manoeuvres. Randy would even be banned from intramural Tae kwan do sessions, due to his overtly aggressive behaviour. All he'd done was remove a schoolmate's arm from its socket. He scoffed at the weakness of the American youth about him and their lack of understanding when it came to real world politics and the levels to which people had to rise or sink to make mortal decisions. 

His new brothers in the IRA had told the six boys upon the completion of their training that they would be sent home as operatives and if the opportunity arose for them to help achieve the goal of a free and democratic Ireland, they would be contacted. All the tools they would need would be provided; all the information they would need would be made available to them. 

So it came to be that in the summer of his seventeenth birthday, Randy had received a telephone call from Tom, telling him he wanted him to pick up a friend of his at the airport. He was to tell his father the truth, that an acquaintance of the man who ran the hostel in Ireland was coming into town, and that she would require a ride from the airport to her hotel in the town centre. Gregory O' Neil had of course wanted to accompany his son, it didn't seem right that he would be escorting a young woman to a hotel room, but Randy had dissuaded him with an abrupt and forceful "No." 

There was a time when Gregory would have chastised his son for having spoken that way with him, but that time had passed. Randy was now a muscular, and in all honesty, frightening individual. 

The woman had been a flawless as she was nameless. Her voice was deep and raspy, what Randy thought the actress Kathleen Turner might sound like with an Irish lilt, but her body was Demi Moore all the way. She had the physique of a female bodybuilder, and was more than intimidating to a boy such as Randy. 

The ride from the airport in his father's Oldsmobile had been spent in awkward silence. Tom hadn't gone into details over the phone, for obvious reasons, so the woman's rank and mission were unknowns. He couldn't help letting his eyes wander to his passenger though. She wore a long sleeved black silk blouse, and matching black slacks. Along with her black shoes, nylons, hair, and sunglasses she was almost void of any colour whatsoever. The one exception was her green necklace, which was dotted with small emerald shamrocks. Her breasts were obviously unrestrained beneath the silk top, and Randy was amazed at how they defied gravity and remained afloat beneath the shimmering blouse, if he'd been a little older he may have been able to attribute this to breast enhancement surgery, but to his young eyes, they were a miracle of nature. 

"Are ya done starin'?" she'd asked him about three blocks from the hotel. The words hadn't been sharp, but neither had they been an invitation. He had the impression she didn't mind his appreciative glances, but that there was work to be done. 

"I… I'm sorry, Miss…" he'd sputtered. 

"Leave it," she commanded, and he obeyed. "This is important work afoot, Lad, and I'll not have your mind wandering." 

Once inside the nondescript room at the Hilton, she seemed to relax some. She pulled forth from her luggage a black leather folder one might associate with a businesswoman. 

The woman sat down on a corner of the bed with the folder and motioned for him to join her. His brief well of excitement was quickly squashed, however. 

"It's as close as yer ever gonna get to sharing one of these with me, Boy," she spat. Once again, he did as he was told. 

She opened the folder, and the face of a man immediately leapt out at him from a photograph. It wasn't a studio shot, but it was a very well done profile, most likely taken with a zoom lens. The shot had been taken outside of a grey building, which the gentleman appeared to be entering. He was rather average in appearance, lacking in many of the facial markers he'd been trained to recognize when remembering faces. There was a very distinct scar running down his left cheek though, and his dark hair and ruthless look gave him a slightly dashing quality that certainly would make him popular with the ladies. 

The woman sat quietly while he digested the photograph in front of him. 

Was he the one that was to end this man's life? 

"His name is James Bond. He's a British diplomat and we have very good reason to believe he will be frequenting this area soon. He has acquaintances that live nearby, their names and addresses are included in the briefing," she motioned her head toward the picture and the documents beneath. 

She was rushing, Randy realised. He took in her black, leather folder with a quick glance and noted there were at least 20 folders similar to the one given to him. 

"Is he the target?" Randy asked. She recoiled at this, and quickly looked about the room. When she spoke again, it was in a venomous whisper. 

"They told me your training was excellent, Boy, that you excelled in weaponry and that you were mentally sharp. I assume you have already checked this room for monitoring devices, but to speak openly is not wise. Just read the file." 

"If there are any confirmed bookings for this man, or any known aliases, at any local airports, train stations, or rental car agencies you will be informed immediately. Otherwise, keep a close eye on the house noted in the briefing. Upon a confirmed sighting, you will be given some tools. This is an important man, Randy," this was the first time she'd spoken his name. "He has committed high crimes against our people, and to aid in the slaying of such a monster would be an honourable and decorated service." 

She reached out and took his hand in hers. 

"Do not fail, do not let this man see you until you want him to. Screw up, and we may kill you before he does."   


The threats had not been necessary, but he understood why they'd been issued; they just wanted to convey the gravity of the situation. 

The cripple, Leiter, was the man whose house he had been assigned to monitor. According to the briefing, the man was a former colleague and friend of Bond's. It hadn't been an unpleasant assignment, the guy's girlfriend was a looker, and the two of them worked out in the pool, and often made love while doing so. It sickened the boy to see the legless, armless, man manipulating the flesh of such a beautiful woman, but at the same time, the show was worth the price of admission. 

The file told him Leiter used a Beretta 9mm and was a Pinkerton detective, as well as a former operative of the CIA, and was graded as a first class shot with his good arm. 

After two months of observing, the first E-mail came. It was from Tom, and was quite simple and to the point; a flight number and the man's assumed name, John Bryce. There was also a query as to when his father would be away for at least several hours. Randy laughed at this last bit, a better question would have been, when would his father be home for more than a couple of hours? 

"Good Luck, Boyo," the message had ended. "And happy hunting." 

Randy replied, and the very next day, while his father was at yet another fundraiser, a very nondescript man driving a white Chevy van, whose plates were covered with brown paper, delivered the H&K. The gun and case were wrapped in the same butcher paper, and after hurriedly unwrapping them like an expectant child beneath the Christmas tree; he laid the case, gun, and ammunition upon his bed and marvelled at their beauty for several minutes. 

The barrel had a note rolled about it. Randy smiled as he began to read the brief. The cripple's woman, Needy, had purchased four tickets to a Bocelli concert. The target was to be Bond's companion, if that companion were female. Randy knew this was inevitable after having read the man's personality profile. If the companion was not female, he was to take out Leiter. Just as a reminder of the words of the woman in black, he was not to harm Bond, and was to attempt to avoid any confrontation with the man if possible. 

* * *  
  


As Bond began to hammer at the door of the warehouse, giving the rusted doorframe a few test kicks to gauge its strength, Randy took a running leap off of the catwalk. 

The mattresses he'd placed below a few days before broke his fall efficiently, if not gracefully. He'd taken eight practise jumps prior to this one, using the standard pole-vaulting flop. His first attempt had been a disaster; the recoil from the mattresses and the twenty-five foot drop had flung him back in the air and onto the cold concrete. During a later jump, his right leg had become trapped beneath him and his ankle had been twisted. These traumas had been worth his attention, however, as he completed the jump. The mattresses now smelt of urine, and the bitter stink stuck with him as he rolled to the edge of his landing pad. 

As he regained his feet, he felt the athletic tape straining against his right ankle. It was wrapped tightly, and felt secure, he was sure he would have little difficulty in beating the Brit in a footrace if it were to come to that, but there would be no outrunning bullets. Randy reached down to the front pocket of the loose black windbreaker he'd worn, and felt the reassuring weight of his contingency plan, just in case he came face to face with Mr. Diplomat. 

Placing a few boring mills between him and the entrance Bond was banging on, Randy scampered across the structure toward the far door.

* * *  
  


James Bond halted his attacks on the door for a moment and placed his ear against the steel postern. Covering his other ear to block out the sound of the sirens of the approaching emergency vehicles, he could faintly hear the flight of fading footfalls. Bond's first thoughts of a lone assassin had been correct, and if he didn't move quickly, the bastard would be away before Sam's body had even begun to grow cold. 

With the last on his mind, Bond reared back and unleashed a mighty kick at the already yielding frame. He took a quick, shielded look inside the warehouse. There was no gunfire, only the now distant footfalls of the assailant. Bond bolted through the door and into the long shadows and dim light of the shop. 

He moved to his right trying to establish a line of fire. The high, heavy-glassed windows rimming the structure provided wan lighting, and as Bond cleared one of the huge presses, he was able to sight his target. The man was little more than a glint of shadow in the darkness, a fleeting figure that was almost to the far side of the building, where 007 was certain the attacker would have a vehicle waiting. 

The hundreds of hours logged at the Maidstone Police Station had honed his skills to automatic fineness. The Beretta was raised in the right hand, the left cradling the weapon's handle, the feet slightly staggered and shoulder length apart. He judged the distance and aimed appropriately high. There was no dramatic Hollywood-style pause, the action was immediate and instinctive as three quick bursts rose from the weapon, the latter two quickly adjusted for recoil and aim. A handgun at such a distance was never a preferred weapon, and with the dim lighting Bond could not be discriminating enough to attempt to just wound the assassin. He would rather piece together a corpse's mystery than have him escape altogether. He heard at least two of his shots ricochet against machinery, but thankfully the figure gave a yelp and then folded to the floor. 

Bond advanced cautiously, gun still raised. The man on the floor now scampered on his haunches toward the nearby cover of some office cubicles. 

"Stop immediately!" Bond shouted, not really expecting a response. "Lie on your stomach and place your arms away from you body, flat on the floor!" 

James Bond let loose a second volley of shots into the cubicles and was rewarded with the sound of breaking glass. The shots were meant as a warning, but the assassin seemed not to care. He was out of sight now behind the floor offices, about twenty feet from the door he'd been fleeing to. As Bond drew closer, he could see the door stood wide open to the night, and he could well imagine the idling car that was surely waiting outside. Someone had thought things through very well, foreseeing what direction pursuit would come from, and clearing an exit. 

He was now passing the offices on his left, about fifteen meters from where the fleeing assailant had crawled from sight. The offices were nothing more than drywall propped up by cheap standards; a bullet would pass through this thin skin like a bear through a spider's web. The man could be on the far side crouching, following Bond's footfalls with his gun, but the agent had no intention of being the victim of some well-timed probing shots. He made the edge of the offices and quickly jerked his head around the corner to see how the ground lay, and then yanked it back. Although the light was dim, he didn't have to see far. The body lay crumpled on the floor in a pool of blood that appeared black in the faded gloom. 

James Bond rounded the corner with the gun still trained on the nearly lifeless figure. He could still see the man's chest rising and falling He then repeated his earlier instructions. 

"Lie on your stomach." 

The man did not move, he was either unconscious, or feigning it well. 

"Place your arms…." 

This was when the whooshing noise came from behind him, and the scene was suddenly lit with flames. A bright fireball erupted through the second storey floor and came crashing down amongst the machinery. Bond averted his head for only a few moments to observe the chaos, but when he turned back to the body a force struck him in the chest. It was as if someone had slammed him with a hundred-pound medicine ball directly to the sternum. He was driven to his knees, and then into unconsciousness.

* * *

Randy had never been shot before. Two of the boys he'd been with in Syria had been clipped during live drills. Neither had been serious, and Randy had just assumed their stays in "Mother Ireland" would be prolonged until the scars could be explained away. 

He was not so lucky, however. The bullet had deflected off something to his right and had torn into his buttocks as he fled. When he made the cover of the offices, Randy had curled on the ground with his back to where Bond would eventually appear, clutching his insurance to his chest. As he felt the blood running down his haunches, pumping from his body to pool about him, he concentrated on ignoring the pain and focussing a visual image in his mind of Bond's approach. He could sense the Brit as he rounded the corner, and stood over his victim, gloating at his own marksmanship, while all the time Randy lay there, playing possum, counting the seconds until the rifle's case would melt down and send the damn building to a fiery grave. 

When the explosion finally came, and Randy could feel Bond's attention averted, he twisted his body to face the man, extended his right arm, and released 30,000 volts into Bond's chest. 

The Taser had been his mother's before her untimely death. A present from his father to assure that his wife had the "safety she needed in such an unsafe world," as the literature read. Too bad the thing couldn't fend off cancer, the boy bitterly mused to himself. 

The three coiled wires shot out and pronged into Bond's chest. The man's back immediately arched as Randy watched the blue charge leap across the wires. The "diplomat's" mouth was agape and his eyes were wide, staring in shock at Randy, but he really wasn't sure if they were seeing anything at all as the man collapsed to the ground and twitched a few times like a landed trout. 

Randy O' Neil didn't stick around to observe much more. He'd been given instructions not to harm Bond, and he hadn't. Baring a heart condition, the man would be up in a few minutes time, and by then, Randy would be safely deposited in the stolen Jeep's driver's seat, miles away from the burning warehouse. He paused for a moment, wondering if Bond would come to and get out of what was sure to become an inferno, but he was damned if he would drag this man outside while his butt bled like a stuck pig, and the cops had time to figure out what the hell was going on. 

As best as he could, Randy ran for the door. The night beckoned him with a cool Houston breeze, but as he cleared the opening, an arm swung out of the night, an arm with a hook where a hand should have been. 

The sharpened black prosthetic ripped into the boy's shoulder as the forward momentum of his body swung his legs out from underneath him. The owner of the hook took advantage of this awkward flight and slammed Randy's body to the ground. Randy could not remember such pain in his life; a bullet imbedded in his ass, and a cripple's hook, which was still lodged underneath his right clavicle. 

"Just like haying back on Uncle Marty's farm," he heard Leiter mutter. When Randy finally opened up his eyes against the pain he saw Felix now stood above him with another 9 mm about three feet from his face and aimed therein. The hook was still buried in his shoulder, the man had just unattached the thing and left it dangling there. 

Leiter saw the boy staring at the device, and offered up an explanation. 

"Stuck," he explained. "Anchored underneath the collar bone. You're just damned lucky I didn't aim higher. That was a mighty fine lady you just killed, Shith**d. I should have buried the thing in your eye socket and been done with it. But this way…we get to know each other a little better. By the way, where's my friend?" 

Randy, still in shock, couldn't answer with anymore than a whimper that would soon be evolving into sobs, but just the turning of his eyes toward the door was good enough for Felix. 

"You in there, James?" he shouted into the smoky blackness beyond the door. 

At first there came a groan, and then a string of epithets as 007 dragged himself to his feet. 

By the time Bond had made it to the door, Randy had regained some of his composure and was becoming difficult. 

"We need to get clear of here," Bond muttered, rubbing a hand across his now aching skull. "The boy must have lit the place after the shot." 

Felix nodded as Randy began to babble. 

"I don't know what the hell you two are talking about. I was just hanging out in there, scoping out spots to bring my girl to. I didn't light any fire, and I sure as hell didn't shoot anybody. Where the f**k's your evidence? My dad's an important man and he's gonna be pissed" 

Bond looked at Felix and rolled his eyes, and then motioned toward the idling Jeep, it would make an appropriate exit vehicle. 

The once straw-haired Texan, who now had a fair share of grey blossoming at the temples, looking down at the whining boy and smiled. Not the smile of someone in good humour, but the grin of someone who'd just lost a loved one, and was ready to unleash some suffering of his own. 

"Aw, you were doin' so well, Kid," he spat as reached down with his stub of an arm to help Bond drag the boy to his feet. "The police won't ever see your butt, and in case you haven't read, the CIA doesn't give a crap about evidence. As far as your dad's ever gonna know, you're just another runaway." 

This said, Randy began to panic, but before he could scream, Felix gave him a merciful butt with the hilt of the gun just behind his ear. 


	3. The Blood of an Englishman

Chapter Four: The Blood of an Englishman  
  


      Moneypenny was silent this day, other than to inform Bond, "He's waiting for you."

      The observant eyes of the highest-ranking personal assistant in M16 followed James's path across the room. The woman he'd been with had been shot dead less than 36 hours earlier, and yet the hard, rugged features of his face betrayed nothing.

      James Bond nodded to her, almost as if saying, "Thank you, for curtailing the sport, today," and went in through the door on her left. The green light above the door went out and was replaced by its red neighbour and Moneypenny returned to her endless sea of secrecy. Funny how much paperwork went in to keeping secrets, she mused.

      Certainly, she'd seen the man upset before. After his wife, Tracy, had been shot to death, he'd been so despondent, it had bordered on self-pity, an emotion she knew Bond despised. It was as if true evil, in the form of Blofeld, had squared off with James in a ring. In the end, he'd been left standing, but part of his mind and his heart had gone dead.

      Friends of hers, though, who had shared his company, and his bed, had left her little to guess at. Mary Goodnight had dated him briefly after his return from the Orient.

      "He's so cold, Penny," she'd told her all those years ago. "The kisses and love making were passionate enough, good Lord, they were more than enough, and I could feel that he cared..." Mary had paused here, running her hand absently over her knee that had still held the colour of the Jamaican sun. "But it was as if he expected me to die at any moment. Being held precious is one thing, but being held captive is another."

       M had requested 007's personal files earlier, and she had reminded him for the thousandth time they were easily accessed from the networked station underneath his corner roll-top.

       Sir Miles had grumbled about the surging headaches the glare from the monitor gave him, and admonished her for playing games with such a serious matter.

      When is it not a serious matter? she though to herself. Bond's files now weighed more than 25 kilos in hard copy. Oh well, she would have one of the younger male clerks bring it up from Records.  Moneypenny was not even sure why the old grump wanted the thing, he knew the senior member of the 00 section well enough he could tell you the colour of the man's briefs on any given day.

M's elbows resided on the red leather of his desktop, with his ancient, weathered seaman's hands steepled before him, and his chin resting on his thumbs. Bond did not notice any movement as he entered the room, save the grey eyes tracking him as he crossed the carpet to one of the chairs before the desk. There, he remained standing.

      "Sit down, 007. I'm afraid this is nasty business." M's attitude was surly, and his voice gruff. James Bond had known his superior long enough to know what this demeanour meant. There was going to be no sympathetic silence from Sir Miles. Bond knew how much M despised personal business entering into the service. On a few occasions, M had asked Bond to take care of some "personal" requests, and during these times, Bond had been more than happy to help, but M had literally appeared as if he were going to shirk out of his own leathered skin he'd been so uncomfortable asking. However, if the personal interference came from a lessor's indiscretion, the old man was even less tolerant, and Bond was a repeat offender.

      M made no secret of the fact he considered the agent's "dalliances" with women during and after his assignments a breech of protocol, and not to mention, morally reprehensible.

      Bond sat quietly with his thoughts, waiting for Sir Miles Messervy to speak. Even when angry about such matters, M would not bridge an uncomfortable, personal topic until someone else brought it up. He was uneasy sermonizing beyond his telltale expressions and an occasional "Humph."

       "How are you, 007?" This was not M's way of voicing concern for Bond's well being, it was his way of asking if Bond was ready for more difficult times ahead.

      Bond shrugged. "There wasn't much time to grow attached, Sir. She was a good person; she deserved a better lot. How much progress has been made on the shooter?"

  The steepled hands now broke apart and laid flat on the red leather of the desk. The old man's ensuing frown informed Bond his change of topic had not furthered his cause much. James had always found it ironic that men wore battle wounds like badges of honour, but emotional scars were something to be hidden away lest one be deemed insecure or incapable.

      "These are deep waters, 007," the old man grumbled leaning forward to snare some tobacco from the slipper at the corner of his desk.

      Are they deep enough to warrant this much melodrama? Bond wondered, as the old sailor very deliberately packed his pipe slowly, took equal care in lighting it, and then inhaled the first long drag.

* * *

  
  


      The man known as Donn, who had once been a small boy named Peter O'Sullivan, sat amongst the ruins of his parent's house, letting his mind wander back over the past few decades. They'd have the note now, and some pompous, former military type would be briefing Bond on its contents. The man would certainly run to ground, if not by his own compunction (Donn had studied the target carefully, and knew fully well the confrontational man was not the type to turn tail and hide), then at the bequest of his supervisors. It would be un-British of them to let a man stay active when he was a target.

The house Donn had grown up in was no more than a cold, lifeless corpse now. The smells and sounds of the night came in through the windows that had been blown out in the fire that had consumed the home not long after his father had died. The IRA men that had taken him and raised him had explained how the Goon Squads had lit the place to let it serve as a monument. The Gooneys, as Donn often referred to them, thought Catholics only understood symbols, so they left them whenever they could. In some respects they were right, Donn thought. The Catholics and the IRA understood symbols very well. Even now, twenty-five years later, there were still small bouquets of flowers scattered about, left by his former neighbours, or those who knew of his story. He bent over and picked up some sprigs of heather fastened together by a pink thread; they were not exactly fresh, but they were not so old that they had turned to dust, either. Yet another British "lesson" had become a rallying cry. There was no lantern to light his way, but he could still make out where "DONN" had been scrolled on the walls, sometimes in the crayon-inspired scrawling of children, and in other places, bold spray-painted letters in an older, more purposeful hand. His people knew; the Brits had wallowed around for a decade and a half just trying to learn his Christian name. And now he had handed it to them, like a farmer doling out slop to the pigs. With his mother dead, there was no fear of retribution on his family, for there was no family left. There were no siblings or children to threaten or torture; he'd made sure the tools of fear and intimidation were solely his now.

Donn waded through the trash that had been his parent's living room. The place stunk of mould and mildew; tell tale signs of years of exposure to the elements. The floor was a sea of wrappers and rotting pillows and blankets left by squatters who had made the place a temporary stay. They were lucky to not be present upon his visit; to desecrate this place with their filthy presence would have been a capital crime whose sentence would have been quickly dispatched.

He rooted about in the trash on the floor, and through dilapidated, rat-infested cupboards, searching for titbits of the child or family that had once lived here. Any such mementoes were long since gone. The carpet was there; tattered and moulded, but still accounted for. What had once been a short, beige weave, was now a black-sooted fowl thing with huge gaping holes where the padding thrust through like intestines from a belly wound. Once, there had been light curls of white twisting through the beige in a curly-q design. A small boy known as Peter had played here, using the white twists as roads for his Matchbox cars, making engine noises as he swerved them about his carpeted countryside. God, how he wished he could reach back to that eight-year-old and warn him. Have him tell his father not to come home that day; tell him that at all costs to avoid becoming the man that he would become.

It would have been easier to have come back during the day. There would have been little chance anyone would recognise him now, but there could have been uncomfortable questions posed. The black, non-reflective clothing was comfortable and fit him well, as it should. He had spent most of his life in black, sometimes hiding, but most often, stalking a target.

His mother's couch still resided in the living room. It had been a brown vinyl three-seater his father would lie down on when he took a nap every Sunday after Mass. The cushions were gone now, and the frame had cracked in the middle so the seat formed a shallow "V" that rested on the ground at its point.

After brushing off some of the filth, Donn sat at one end of the couch. He reached back and ran his splayed fingers through the long, black hair he had worn free this evening, pulling it back away from his face. He cupped his hands over his face briefly and rubbed his eyes. Red-eyed and angry, he sat alone thinking of the first time he had seen Mr. James Bond.

* * *

  
  


       "What do you recall about an Irish assassin called Donn?"

      Bond paused a moment. It was just one of thousands of files that ran across his desk on a regular basis, just as they did across the desks of the other two 00's.

       "IRA trained assassin, became active about eighteen years ago. Name taken from the ancient Celtic god who would cart off the dead to some island south west of Ireland. Believed to be responsible for hundreds of confirmed kills, but never leaves calling cards; unlike most of his Irish brethren, he doesn't seem to like publicity much. About ten years ago, he began to expand his political targets to those of a very lucrative international hit man, including murders in the US, Russia, and even a few African nations. His name has been associated with several terrorist-training locations in Syria and Libya. For about four years he wasn't heard from, and many agencies wrote him off as dead or inactive, but he resumed action about a year ago. Most of our information on him comes through reputation and informants. He changes his appearance at will, and there are no accurate details of height, weight, age, hair nor eye colour. There are no known photographs."

      M gave a "humph" and then took another drag on his pipe. "Very good, 007. It might also be mentioned the man is something of a folk hero to IRA supporters. His name is spray-painted over half of Northern Ireland, people name their children after the bastard."

      "What does any of this have to do with Sam?" Bond asked. "The boy was far too young, and far too sloppy, to be Donn."

      M's bushy eyebrows bunched into a frown.

      "According to the CIA, the boy was just a mole. He'd been sitting on Leiter's house for months waiting for you. He's cracked wide open, but he doesn't have much to tell. The men who trained him in Ireland have vanished, and there is no flight record of the woman who had served as his contact in Texas. It appears whoever planted him, cut him free."

      "The girl, Samantha Maske, was the target, 007. They meant to make you hurt, at least that's what the boy was told. This was confirmed by some recent information we received."

       "What information would that be?" Bond was beginning to feel uncomfortable. It was as he feared, Sam had been killed because of him. One way, or another, that was how it was going to work out.

      "The cheeky monster sent us a letter, it arrived this morning. Donn basically told us everything, right down to how he plans to kill you, 007."

* * *

  
  
  
  


Eight-year-old Peter O'Sullivan played in the street outside of his parent's house in Belfast. Classes were over and Pete and a few of the neighbour boys were kicking about a football, waiting for their mothers to call them in for dinner. Pete liked being outside this time of night because he could see his father coming up the street on his way home from work.

Pete's father, Tim, was an electrical contractor. This didn't mean a whole lot to the boy, all he knew was his father helped to build houses and buildings, making sure the lights would go on and the teles would work. Every morning, six days a week, his father would ride a red bicycle the four-and-a-half-miles to work, and then back again at the end of the day. Sometimes, his father worked "on site." Pete dreaded these times because it meant his father could be away for days. And although he always brought home gifts for Pete and his mother from wherever he'd been working, it was always the anticipation of seeing him coming up the street on his red bike that excited Pete the most.

Being the only child, Pete had been doted on while growing up. His father was his world, as it was with many boys his age.

On this particular day, the skies were overcast and pregnant with the never-ending rain that fell in October. The street was already spotted with puddles the boys joyfully skirted about as they dribbled the ball. The game within the game was to drench the other team's players.

As they boys played, Pete became aware they had an audience. Across the street, near a bus stop, stood two men, one of whom he recognised. Billy Fincher stood with a well-dressed man who was obviously in odd company. Fincher was the neighbourhood's mooch. He had grown up on their block about fifteen years earlier, before his mother had died and his father had moved the family elsewhere. Pete's father had told him that Billy's dad had grown tired of the twenty-year-old son freeloading and had given him the boot. Now, Billy hung about the old neighbourhood, mooching meals off the sympathies of the older women who'd known and loved his mother. Most of the men, however, could not tolerate the younger Fincher. It was a predominantly Catholic neighbourhood, and the man had the reputation of being an informant for the Brits. If it were an hour later, and the husbands of the community were home, Billy would most likely have been beaten soundly, but at this hour, a blight such as he could go unnoticed.

Billy kept glancing over toward Pete's house and then back again at the boys. All the time his lips were moving, conveying unknown bits of wisdom to the taller, darker man who stood with him. It made Pete uncomfortable the way the two men kept on looking at his home, and the boy made a mental note to tell his Pa when he got there. The stranger looked too neat to be keeping company with the likes of Billy. The other man was the type of person that was hard to describe, especially in the limited vocabulary of an eight-year-old. With the exception of a scar on his cheek, and the almost grim, businesslike look on the man's face, there was really nothing that made him stand out. Black hair, grey eyes and clothing, about six feet tall, he looked like anyone else, everyone else.

The stranger was sharp as well. He noticed Pete's attentions and bent down to query something of Billy. Billy looked at Pete as well, and then nodded. They were a more than 45 meters away, and there was no way Pete could pick up their conversation, but in his mind's ear, he could hear Fincher say, "That's the boy."

Pete shivered. The tall stranger nodded at the reply, and then did something that would haunt the boy on through his childhood and into his present. The stranger locked eyes with him, gave a curt nod, an then smiled, before turning away and heading up the rain-soaked street with Billy at his side.

Terrified, Peter ran to his own house, and bolted inside. All young boys have a safe place they go when they feel threatened, and Pete was no exception. His mother had a cherry wood end table next to the family couch in the living room she covered with a huge lace doily that hung close to the ground. This was Pete's place. There was just enough space for him to move about comfortably, and he was well disguised from others in the room. Through the gaps in the lace, he could observe the rest of the room; even watch the television against the far wall, across from the couch. The boy who would someday be responsible for more than a thousand deaths, several hundred with his own hands, curled up in a ball, resting his head on a throw pillow he kept wedged between the couch and wall along with some Matchbox cars and a few books. He would wait for his father, as always. His mother would never understand; she always dismissed his fears as childish. However, his father would listen.

Pete awoke to the sound of voices. It was darker now, night time. Pete peered out through the lace, but the room was very dim and there were no lights on.

"Children, Mark. Thirty-two children. Some of those kids were as young as my son… younger." The voice was his father's, but it was hard for Pete to recognise; it was deeper, and somehow pained. The boy had never heard his father sob in despair, but did so now.

"Tim, they weren't our fault. There was no tellin' when Smite was gonna turn the ignition. It's a tragedy, something we'll have to learn by, but the target was achieved, and at least they didn't die in vain." This voice was his Uncle Mark's. The man was not his real uncle; it was just something he'd asked Pete to call him. Mark worked with his Pa, though Pete did not know what his job was. On Monday nights, his father and Mark and several other neighbourhood men would meet up at the pub for darts. There was something about the man Pete had never really liked though, and from the way he acted, Pete had always thought his father felt the same way.

"The hell they weren't our fault. We could have used a smaller charge; we could have used no charge at all. Why not a bullet, why not let me rig it so he fried when he turned the ignition?"

"We live, we learn, Boyo. The next time, we use a…"

"Damn it all, Mark. There is no "next time" for me. I have to live with this for the rest of my life. I'll give you my time, I'll give you my money, but I'm out of operations."

Pete's eyes were adjusting to the dark now; he could see a man, his Uncle Mark, pacing in front of the couch where he presumed his father sat. Uncle Mark stopped his pacing and faced his father, hands on his hips.

"Think about it a while, Tim. Hold your son; think of what kind of Ireland you want him to grow up in. Thirty-two are nothing compared to all the people we've lost, the children our women have had to mourn. You think about it, and then you call me."

The figure left, and Pete could hear the front door open and close. He wasn't sure what the two men had been talking about, who the "thirty-two children" were, but he knew his father was upset. Pete poked his head out from under the table and looked up at the couch next to him.

There sat his father, with his face buried in his hands, great, huge sobs wracking his body like convulsions. It made Pete sick to see someone he cared about like this. Perhaps now was not the best time to share his fears about the stranger. He pulled his head back under the cover of the lace and tried to sleep again. This time, however, his eyes remained wide open as he listened to his father cry for what seemed an eternity.

Neither father nor son heard the front door open.

* * *

  
  


      "Why kill me?" Bond asked. "I'm not a very good political target, there are a lot more visible officers than me available."

       M shook his head.

      "It's not political, 007. And it's not some contract put on you by a jealous husband. He says it's personal. Do you remember the Belfast School Bus Bombing?"

      James Bond shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

      "It's not something I like to think of, Sir."

      "Tell me what you remember, I'll fill you in on the rest."

      This was more than rote memory for him; this was tearing open an old wound. Killing defenceless men was never a proud point for him, but it sometimes was a necessary part of his job.

      "You assigned me the case about twenty years ago. Sir Walter Smite was murdered with a car bomb in Belfast outside his home. The saboteurs had wired his ignition to enough dynamite to crack the windows of homes blocks away. It appeared to be unintentional, but a state school bus just happened to be passing the car at the moment it exploded. All thirty-two children, both Catholic and Protestant, on board the bus were instantly killed along with the driver. There was quite a bit of television coverage of the bodies being removed and the public was outraged in both England and Ireland. In response, the Prime Minister requested a "00" be loaned to M15 for the case. My orders were simple; I was to make an example of the murderers. I was to kill every person who had taken part in the planning and execution of the murders, and make no attempt to hide the bodies. Not exactly our finest hour, Sir."

      M grunted again.

      "Don't get soft, 007. I'm sure the parents of those children would not agree with you."

      Bond didn't reply for a moment, he was lost in thought. Twenty years ago, that was how they responded, with a hammer and a gun. He prayed they would do things differently if it happened today.

      "Do you remember a man named Timothy O'Sullivan?"

      Bond nodded. "He was the first target, an electrician who'd rigged the bomb and had supplied the explosives. He had a wife and son. As I said, not our finest hour. Why do you ask?"

      "The son's name was Peter O'Sullivan, but these days he calls himself Donn. He claims he was witness to his father's murder and that you are directly responsible for the hundreds of Englishmen he's killed over the years."

      Even a few years earlier, Bond may have shrugged these comments off, but maybe he was getting melancholy at his current age. Had he murdered the child's father in front of him? Had he been that careless?

      "That's not all, 007." M was trying to keep his attention. "He says he's going to make you suffer before he puts two bullets into the back of your head."

* * *

  
  


"Timothy O'Sullivan," the voice was British, very calm and businesslike.

The sobbing stopped immediately and was replaced with anger.

"Who the hell…" his father began, but then stopped abruptly. Pete looked out through the lace again. The world was still in shadows, but he could make out the figure of a man in the middle of the room; a man who's right arm was extended toward where his father sat. There was something in the man's hand.

"Where is your wife?" the man's voice was cold and modulated, as if he'd done this many times.

"Look if this is a robbery, you can take whatever…" there was a pleading quality to his father's voice, Pete now realised the thing in the man's hand must be a gun, he went from being scared to being terrified. He was frozen in his fear, his skin prickling, and even his breath stopped.

"I think you know what this is, Mr. O'Sullivan. Now, where is your wife?"

"She is at her sister's house." His father wanted to say more but the stranger cut him off.

"And your son?"

"I wanted to send him with her, but he must be over at a friend's." His father's voice sounded resigned now, it had gotten lower and was almost a mumble. "Please, there's no reason to involve them." There was a sound as his father shifted on the couch.

"Do not move unless I tell you to!" the stranger's voice was harder now and his body visibly tensed. "Get on the floor, on your stomach."

His father did as he was told. There were tears streaming down Pete's face now, but he couldn't even whisper.

"Now, keep flat on the ground, keep your legs together and stretch you arms out away from your sides."

"For Christ's sake, man." His father was outright crying now, but still followed the man's commands. "I've got a family, please don't do this." His father's outstretched hand was only a few inches from the end table where Pete hid. Pete wanted so badly to reach out and hold one of his Pa's fingers in his tiny hands.

The stranger, who Pete now recognised as the man who had been on the street with Billy, kneeled down so his right knee was in the middle of his father's back. He now placed the gun's barrel at the back of the other man's skull.

"Listen very carefully. Where did the explosives come from?"

"I don't know what you…"

"Where did the explosives come from? The ones you and your friends used to murder Sir Walter Smite and all those children."

His father cried harder now.

"It wasn't supposed to be like that. We're soldiers, like you."

The gun was now pressed harder into the back of his head.

"You mentioned your family," the stranger now said. "Now, where did the dynamite come from?"

"I got it from a site," there was complete surrender now. Pete had watched his father's manhood taken away from him at gunpoint.

"A construction site? You provided the materials yourself?" the man sounded as if he already knew the answer to the question and was just confirming.

"Yes," his father replied, his voice so hushed now it barely passed his lips.

The man had reached over to the couch with his free hand and grabbed a pillow as if he meant to fluff it up for a nap. He quickly placed it at the back of his father's skull and then shoved the gun into it.

There was a muffled roar in the room and Pete was now paralysed, his eyes blank and staring. _This couldn't be happening,_ some part of his mind had decided. _This couldn't be happening, so we're going to shut things down for a while_.

His father's body twitched and tensed. The stranger put the pillow and gun to the head one more time and pulled the trigger. The twitching stopped.

The man stood, quickly surveyed the room, put his gun away into a shoulder holster, and was gone.

It would be three hours before his mother got home and started screaming. It would be twenty more minutes before the ambulance got there. A little more than an hour after that, they would find the body of his Uncle Mark, also with two bullets to the back of the skull in an alley a few blocks away.

But it would be five hours before the police found Peter as they marked the crime scene. Huddled beneath the table, his face tear-streaked, his mouth open, and his eyes staring blankly.

* * *

  
  


       "Needless to say, 007. We're not going to make an easy target of you. You are going to be taken off of active duty, and you're going to get out of the country until this matter is resolved."

      "Sir," Bond protested. "I hardly think…"

      "I hardly think you have any say in the matter, 007. A little more vacation might do you some good. I want you to disappear while we let 008 track this mad dog and put him down. Right now, you would just be a liability, an endangerment to anyone you were working with. And I'm certainly not letting you come to the office everyday so you can be an easy target."

      Bond was still not ready to give up the fight.

      "008 is a fine and capable man, Sir. But if I'm visible, the target will eventually come to me. I could flush him out into the open."

      "And I could flush on of my best agents down the head. I think not, 007. This is the end of the discussion. You are going to walk out that door, get Moneypenny to draw up your airline tickets under your Boldman alias, and then you are going to vanish once you land. I want you to break with policy and not check in with any heads of stations wherever you are going. I want you to check in directly to the Chief of Operations over a safe line. Tanner will inform you when you are cleared to return to duty. Am I making myself understood?" There was always granite in the old man's eyes, but now they were even harder than normal.

       "Yes, Sir."

      "Now, do you have somewhere you can go where you'll be able to stay low. I dare say your lifestyle doesn't always lend itself to obscurity."

      "Yes, Sir. I have the perfect place in mind."

      When Bond exited the office, and the green light above the door lit once again, Moneypenny put on her best face for him.

      "So, where to this time, James?" she chirped.

      "How about the south of France, Moneypenny? And let's do try to avoid the major airports."

* * *

  
  


      Seven men would be shot in Belfast over a two-day period. Some of them as his father had been, some appeared to have put up a fight, but they were all dead.

Tom Barry and the other members of his new family in the IRA would eventually tell him the whole story about six years later. They knew about Sir Smite, the bomb, and the children, but they couldn't tell him the name of the assassin the Brits had sent.

"He killed them all," Tom had said. "Every man that had been in on the planning of the sloppy episode, everyone involved."

By then, Donn had been born, and he was more than capable of finding the stranger's name. All it had taken was a few hours alone with Billy Fincher in a cellar with a paring knife. It was ceaselessly amazing to Donn how missing chunks of flesh strategically placed on a man's anatomy can spur the memory.

"Bond," the bloody mess had croaked. "James Bond."

Back in the present, Donn stood up from the weather beaten sofa. The end table was no longer next to the couch; it had been wood and was probably either stolen or burned. Bond had taught him valuable lessons for his career as a human butcher. When he killed for the IRA, or for himself, as he had been doing since puberty, he always kept his demeanour calm and professional. For more than eighteen years he had been amassing money and a reputation, and both were going to come in useful now that he had begun his dance with Mr. Bond. The man was going to suffer before he died, but no matter how good it felt, Donn would not betray his emotions. The woman's death was just the beginning.

Donn paused before leaving the dilapidated house to look behind the couch in his old hiding place, his safe place. His searching hand fell upon something flat and hard, and he withdrew it. Faded and warped, a piece of his childhood stared up at him, an edition of Jack and the Beanstalk, a boyhood favourite of his, before his boyhood had been stolen.

Donn smiled.

"Fe, Fi, Fo, Fum," he whispered to himself before tossing the book aside and leaving into the night.


	4. Blood is Not for Sale

**_ SEQ CHAPTER \h \r 1_****__****_CHAPTER FIVE: BLOOD IS NOT FOR SALE  
  
  
  
_**

The pleasant, sea-scented breezes of the Mediterranean washed across the deck of the ferry, bringing with them a shower of speckled, salty drops. Most of the French ferries landed at Bastia, the modern capital of Corsica, but Bond had always preferred the Ajaccio approach, which brought one along side the spectacular cliffs of the western face of the island.

Bond abhorred disguises, and thankfully none would be necessary on this trip. Corsica's main business was tourism, with six times as many people visiting the lush, undeveloped island every year as live there. There was no need for a passport as was the case with any of the European Union countries. The land aggressively repulsed occupation and modern amenities, but opened its arms wide for the all mighty Euro. Even now, after centuries of French rule, the Corsican language was still alive, and although the island was predominantly Christian, Pagan rituals and beliefs were still strictly adhered to. Here, Bond was simply one more Brit attempting to get away from the hustle and relax on the sandy white beaches while downing _pastis with disabandon. And here, Bond could hide, or strike, from strength, seeking refuge on an island famous for its bandits and home to the vendetta._

James Bond looked up at the imposing sheer face of granite towering straight up next to the dwarfed ferry. Only the gods could have built such a fortress, no wonder the natives were superstitious. The cliffs extended in either direction until they met the sea on the horizons. You might not be able to get warm water or a toilet that flushed, but it certainly was magnificent.  


The port of Ajaccio, the famed birthplace of Napoleon, is on the southwest side of the island. Bastia, at the northern tip, is more elegant and appealing to modern eyes, benefiting from its easy accessibility and its proximity to France, but as a capital city should be, Ajaccio was true to its roots, rough and historic. Bond's father-in-law, Marc-Ange, had once described Ajaccio as truly Corsican. 

"Bastia is like a whore, James," he had said bluntly. "She paints herself up and calls to every man passing by, saying she will be whatever he wants for 20 francs.  But in Ajaccio, in the south, this is your true love; she doesn't need to wear her make-up, and she may give you the cold shoulder from time to time, but she is within your heart, and you, within hers." 

The summer heat on shore led Bond to shed his Mac quickly. He stood patiently at the dock with his few bags of luggage, including the traditional Q-branch briefcase, which unlike credit cards, he never left home without. The motor travel in Corsica was sparse compared to the Continent; too many mountains, too few passable roads, but there were still a few taxis available at the docks. The drivers called to him in French and Italian, but Bond waived them off. 

Unlike the service, where when on duty, at least twenty potential leaks had to be informed of his every movement, there was only one man who knew that he was coming to Corsica, and that one man was more than enough.

After about five minutes of baking in the afternoon sun, a camouflage Humvee pulled up next to him. The transport was entirely too large for the narrow streets of the city, but once in the _maquis, where the roads could only flatteringly be referred to as game trails, the brutal ruggedness of the enormous vehicle would be invaluable._

Two men got out of the Hummer. The driver maintained his position, standing just outside the vehicle, door open, scanning the dock back and forth. Although the vehicle had tinted windows, it was relatively easy for Bond to make out the Colt M4A1 Carbine automatic rifle the driver held concealed behind the door.

The other man, who was well into his sixties, did not linger with his partner. He sprang out of the passenger seat and approached Bond with a thin smile. The grey skin had aged some, become leathery, under the heavy Corsican sun, but there was no mistaking the small pox scars marring the otherwise thin and jovial face.

James Bond returned the grin with one of his own, and met the outstretched hand extended to greet him.

"Le Commandant," the man said in French, pumping the proffered hand. "It is good to see you."

"And you as well, Toussaint," Bond replied.

The man who had been introduced so long ago to Bond as "Le Pouff" turned to the driver and gave a nod of confirmation. Marc-Ange had sent someone who would recognise him, someone who could be trusted. This man had been with Marc-Ange and Bond when they had raided Piz Gloria a lifetime ago. He was the plastique expert who had levelled the entire chalet, if only Blofeld had been inside at the time. From the feel of the man's hands, Bond could discern he was still active in his chosen trade, despite his age.

"Come, my friend," Toussaint grabbed the few bags Bond had brought, and motioned him to the vehicle. "We should get out of this heat. Your father mentioned you wanted as little exposure as possible."

Bond nodded and climbed into the rear seat of the roomy, but rough riding vehicle, and was introduced to the driver, Emiliano. He would have to readjust himself to the laid back conventions of the Corsicans.  Family meant so much to these people. Bond had bristled at the mention of his "father". His parents had died when he was a child. Marc-Ange was his father-in-law, the result of a marriage that had lasted less than a day. But Tracy's father would always be his own. Tracy had been the only precious thing in the old man's life. He was a widower who spoiled his daughter with the wealth and power a Capu of the Union Corse could bring to bear. With Tracy's death, the man had lost everything. With nothing left to prove, and no one left to lavish gifts upon, he'd done the unthinkable and left the Union Corse, and France, to return to Corsica. In a country, for Corsicans always thought of themselves as independent, where family was the ultimate bond, this was the one man James Bond knew would not betray him.

* * *

As Donn navigated the compact rental car through the streets of Dublin he allowed himself a few vain thoughts of reminiscence. It was a gloomy day, overcast, as so many days were in this part of the world.  

After having been in every conceivable corner of the globe, experiencing new cultures, meeting new and interesting people, and then killing them, it was always strange to see home again.  

The spires of Saint Peter's rose above the rooftops before him, reflecting off his windshield like a grey distorted photograph.  He had to break quickly as some children playing with a football ran out into the street in front of him.  Donn smiled and waved them on across the street, but one boy just stood there a few moments and stared at him.  Donn had finally started to adjust to such stares, but the first few years had been disorienting as hell.

The hostel hadn't changed much over the years; it stood within the shadow of the church, like a smaller, poorer brother, drab in comparison.   He parked the car in the spaces allotted for staff and then pulled the bottle of pills from his glove compartment.  After having forced down another sickening dose he quickly mounted the steps to the rear entrance that accessed the living quarters of Tom Barry and Maelisa.  

By old habit, he gave his traditional knock on the door, the "safe" knock as Tom had dubbed it.  He and Feale had used it as children to let Tom and Maelisa know it was they at the door, and not more official, uninvited guests.

There were sounds of movement from within, and then the door swung open energetically.   

There stood Maelisa who'd been more of a mother to him than his own had ever been.  There was a look of excitement and happiness on her face, but it quickly faded into the indifference of a stranger.

"May I help you?" she asked.  It nearly broke him to carry on this charade with someone he cared so deeply for, but there was method to his madness.

"Is Tom Barry in?" he asked in someone else's voice.

"Tell him that it's an old friend from the war," he said.

This would let her know he was here on business from Sein Fenn.  She quickly excused herself, and in a few moments the huge figure of Tom Barry filled the doorway.  Donn watched an admonishing glance pass between Maelisa and Tom, but then the other man was waving him into the building, and whisking him off to his private study, a room that as small children, he and Feale had been banned from entering.

As the door shut behind them, Tom Barry turned and addressed him.

"We keep this room very clean, and the walls are more than soundproof, you can talk freely."

"Thank you, Da," he said, as he took a seat in one of the comfortable leather reading chairs which fit in nicely with the huge, oak bookcases lining the room from wall to wall.  Letting his eyes roam the volumes he could see books on everything from Irish history, to modern warfare, to the complete works of Leon Uris, to the poetry of Blake.  Taken back for a moment, Donn could remember the young Peter O'Sullivan, cowering beneath the covers of the lower bunk he shared with Feale as a small boy, as the beautiful baritone of Tom Barry read "The Tyger" to them.   

"So, you are still going through with this insanity?" Barry asked him.

"Do you think I could go back now?  Does it look like I could go back now?  I was bound the moment he pulled that trigger, now more than ever."

As Tom Barry shook his head, Donn could easily make out the grey hairs shooting through the older man's temples.  Somewhere along the way, Tom had become old, and with the age had come placidness.

"Before you judge too harshly, remember, the men that died we're friends of yours as well, and this man, Bond, is an enemy of the Irish people.  His hands are sticky with the blood of patriots."

Tom had brought his considerable bulk to rest in a chair facing Donn.

"Ah.  I think I've learned a thing or two about hatred over the years, and revenge, as well.  I've managed to massage the one, and carry out the other, without having gone to the extremes you have, my dear boy.  I mean, how far can a man go out of hatred?"

Donn kept his mouth shut out of respect, but he knew the level of hate he'd carried inside of him for nearly two decades, was of a type Tom Barry had never encountered.  Being willing to kill was one thing, but he was dealing with the kind of flame that could burn so bright he was willing to not only give up his own life, but to also willing go through unimaginable physical and psychological torture along the way.  

"All that matters is that you are with me," he told Barry.

"You know I am," was the reply.

"Then you've made the arrangements?"

"Aye, that I have.  But I hate to see you throw it all away like this." 

Donn was convinced the other man had grown soft now, and he hoped he would have the stomach for what was to come.

* * *

"How is Marc-Ange?" Bond asked Toussaint, yelling to overcome the roaring of the Humvee's engine. It had taken less than five minutes to clear the city proper, and they were already crashing through thick foliage on what could best be described as a trail. Marc-Ange basically had a village of his own. He'd retired with millions and built a compound for himself, and his loyal men and their families, called _Monte Paese deep in the __maquis of central Corsica._

"He is well, " Toussaint replied. "Lately, he is like a young man, running after the ladies like a buck in the springtime. This is your first visit to _u Paese, is it not?"_

"Yes," Bond yelled back in reply. "But I've heard much about it."

And so he had, from M.  The fact he'd married into a Capu's family had never set well with Sir Miles. Even though Marc-Ange was retired, M made no secret of the fact the service was still keeping track of the man through their links with the _Gendarmerie Nationale._

Marc-Ange had never discouraged him from visiting _Monte Paese, but he had never invited Bond either. When the two met, it was usually in Ajaccio or Bastia, Marc-Ange owned so many properties and restaurants on the island that he was at home wherever he laid his hat._

James Bond was very interested in catching a look at the compound, however, not so much to settle his own mind, but M's as well.

"He imports a lot of weapons for someone who's retired," M had pointed out upon Bond's return from one of his stays on the island.

"Sir," Bond had quipped back. "As you are well aware, anyone over the age of twelve on Corsica is usually armed. A Capu, even a former one, certainly has his fair share of blood feuds. It's a different world."

"You are right, 007." the old man had replied. "It is a different world, one in which a member of Her Majesty's Service has no place."

In professional respects, M was correct; although Bond's connection with the Union Corse had proven useful on several occasions, even integral in the case of tracking down Blofeld, there was always the possibility they would ask for something in return. About fifteen years earlier, Bond had been duped into helping his father-in-law. After having been notified of Draco's death, Bond had taken a personal leave, and had been flown in for the funeral in Fozzano, Marc-Ange's home village. For five years, he thought the old man was deceased, until he'd shown up in person on Bond's doorstep in London, explaining he'd escaped a vendetta brought upon him by a rival whose daughter he'd made the acquaintance of. 

Bond was also distinctly aware Marc-Ange's own safety could be endangered if it were discovered he was so close to a law officer, even one of a foreign government. Corsicans did not take kindly to police of any sort, and the_ bandits d'honneur were held to even higher standards._

After an hour of travel, through increasingly dense terrain, and scantier paths, the mountains of the _Haute Corse_ began to grow before them. At one point, they wound about a hillside, upon which sat huge granite structures that resembled small houses. Bond tapped Toussaint on the shoulder, and motioned to the buildings.

Toussaint smiled wide, releasing the smell of garlic.

"We take death very seriously in Corsica, Commandant. These are peasant mausoleums. It is hard to find a hillside without them, even high in the mountains.  We fancy ourselves as living very close to death, and usually a violent one.  Funerals are things of beauty, and the wakes are almost worth dying for.  Your loved ones even bury mementos along with you."  

This clicked in Bond's memory.  He could remember the Corsican's in attendance at Tracy's funeral tossing trinkets and photographs into the grave, just as one might throw dirt or flowers.

"Sort of like the ancient Egyptians, packing away things for he afterlife?" Bond asked as he watched the tombstones disappear into the distant _maquis_ behind them.

"No, nothing so ceremonial," Toussaint answered with a shake of his head.  "Just a sign of affection or respect for a loved one, it helps with the, how do you say…separation."

Bond nodded, as he recalled a tearful Toussaint had laid something in Tracy's grave as well.

"Even those killed in a vendetta often have the murder weapon buried along with the body.  Sort of a signpost as to how someone left this world, and how others might follow if they weren't careful. "

The dense vegetation began to give way some as they began a steady assent. The terrain was now more high grass and rocks. A few times they had to stop in order to let a flock of sheep clear from the path, the last of which, the driver extended his hand out the window and let out a hearty, _"Bonghjounu!" to the young shepherd._

"Emiliano's son, Curtuis," Toussaint explained. "Many of the young boys of the village tend the sheep."

"How many people live there?" Bond was now a little concerned. The more people that were aware of his presence, the more danger he was presented with. As he asked this, they came around a bend and onto a plateau, or _pianu, and __Monte Paese presented herself._

"We do not keep a census, my friend," Toussaint replied. "But there are well more than a hundred, not including children."

_          Monte Paese was not so much a compound as it was a small, walled city.  It reminded Bond of a miniature version of Carcassonne, France with its high, white walls of stone and watchtowers.   He could make out several dozen houses within, the red tiled roofs protruding like fairy tale cottages from within the encampment. _

          The front gate was at least twenty feet wide, and open to them.

They drove about half a block within the walls, passing along a very active thoroughfare where children bounded about in scruffy peasant clothing playing their games in the street. The other inhabitants of the village, the men and women, watched the Hummer pass by with mixed expressions of suspicion and interest.

Seeing the look of concern on Bond's face, Toussaint explained in his heavy accented French. "The Corsican people are a contradiction, Commandant. They are welcome hosts, but also mistrust foreigners. They know the son of the Capu is coming to visit, and they will greet you with love and open arms, but you are _Inglese as well, so you may expect more than a few guarded looks."_

They came to the central house of the town, a huge, three-storey structure higher than anything within the city, except for a church spire in the distance. If this were a medieval walled city, then this would be its castle, albeit, a modest one.

There was a dog run constructed next to the house, and the front gate to it stood open, a gate through which the massive faces of several large hounds could be seen.  As they climbed out of the Humvee, Toussaint made his way over to the dogs, and bending down began to affectionately coddle the giants with his leathery, old hands.

"Come over here, Commandant, and meet the boys," he beckoned Bond over to him with a waving hand.

"Mastiff's?" Bond commented.

"Cane Corsos," the old man nodded.  "Bred from the historic Roman Molossus.  They have the best temperament you'll ever find in a big dog."

Bond bent down next to the old man, and after a few moments of assessing him with their noses, the dogs assented to his outstretched hand with lathering affection.  There were seven or eight of the animals in total, ranging from red, to brown, to white in colouring.  They were quite large, some of them near 70 centimetres tall, but seemed to be quite well behaved.

"They never get sick, you know?" Toussaint told him.  "They tend the flocks, they guard the houses, they hunt, and yet they're quiet as church mice unless you provoke them."

_Much like the Corsicans, themselves,_ Bond thought to himself. 

"Well, James, it is good to see your taste in friends hasn't changed much," a voice boomed from the house's porch.

Bond smiled, and turned, to greet his father in law.

Marc-Ange Draco was now in his seventies but still broad and muscular across his chest. His dark complexion and infectious smile were both on display. As Bond rose to his feet, Marc-Ange nodded to Toussaint and Emiliano, and then embraced his son-in-law with ferocity, firmly planting kisses on both his cheeks.

"Welcome to _Monte Paese, James," the well educated, but little spoken English of Marc-Ange was a welcome sound to Bond's ears. " Now, what kind of mess have you gotten yourself into?"  
_

Bond spoke for more than two hours, as he and Marc-Ange sat at a wooden table in the latter's kitchen, sharing _figatellu, a garlic-laden pork liver sausage__, a hard baguette, and a bottle of __Cap Corse, a local, fortified wine flavoured with __maquis herbs and quinine. Since there was nothing confidential to give away, he was able to speak freely of Donn, and of the back history involved._

"This Donn is well known to me," Draco had told him. "He would be a poor choice for an enemy, but he is reachable."

Bond had been hoping for, and dreading, this kind of response. He knew if he were to strike out at Donn, and not just lay in hiding, he would have to do so from strength. Since he was cut off from his normal avenues, Marc-Ange was the strongest ally he could hope for. The man had a virtual army of dedicated soldiers at his disposal, and a network of informants spanning across the entire continent. 

The downside was that M had been correct. Donn, although highly reputable in terrorist circles, was unknown to the world at large.  If Draco were truly living his isolated retirement here in the middle of the _maquis, with his own village of faithful subjects, how would he know of an international assassin who'd become active only after Marc-Ange had left "the business."_

The Corsican was perceptive, another trait of his people, and he quickly picked up on Bond's concern.

"James, when Teresa's mother died, all I had left was my little girl. When she was murdered, all I had left was my hatred, and need for vengeance upon the monster, Blofeld. After you killed the bastard, all that was left for me was my work, my home, and my people.  Until recently, my personal life has been a dead thing. The Union Corse is gone; the smuggling, the protection money, the prostitutes, all of it is a thing of the past. I have become like Albert Schweitzer, _no?, I have spent the first part of my life living for myself, and accruing more money than a man has a right to. Now, I have spent the second half fighting for causes greater than myself."_

"The FLNC?" Bond asked, his regular briefings at the office included updates on all active terrorist activity, even that which did not directly affect England. 

Marc-Ange frowned.

"FLNC is such a generic term, it implies there is organisation. What Corsica has is vast amounts of people working toward various, and often contradicting, ends. My cause is the people of Corsica, and our eventual freedom from France, and I work to that end."

"You are the last vestige of family I have, James. And although we are no longer opposite numbers on either side of a battle, we also are not on the same side. I love you, and I will see no harm come to you, especially here at _Monte Paese. We Corsicans may have the hottest blood on the planet, and even though vengeance may belong to God, we have borrowed it from time to time. But here you are safer, James, than you could be anywhere else in the world. Corsicans have a saying, "Blood is not for sale." It is that simple."_

There were hundreds of questions James Bond wanted to pose. The FLNC was not as virulent, or violent, as the IRA, but they were not, as M had reminded him, someone a servant of the Queen should be associated with. 

"In a few moments, we shall stop, and speak no more of this matter until the morning. You are not a son of Corsica, but you are my son. Tonight is a homecoming, of sorts, and the people of _Monte Paese do not need much of a reason to celebrate. Although you are __Inglese, you are the son of the Capu, there shall be a feast this evening, and you have a chance to show my men you are their brother. Already, I can smell the aromas of what is to come." Bond could as well, there was the distinctive tang of roast pork drifting through the kitchen window, which also displayed the oncoming darkness of evening.  Other, more exotic smells were there as well, and Bond's stomach reminded him there was more to life than liver sausage._

The other man continued on, " There will be music, and many beautiful ladies to distract you from that which makes your heart so heavy."

Bond wanted to protest, but Marc-Ange cut him off with a raised hand.

"There is someone here, someone who works for me and has joined my village, who knows your Donn well...very well. I know you hate the man for what he did to your Samantha, but this woman's venom for him is far greater. She is my _Peu de balle, de haine, my "little ball of hate." She will help us track this man, and help us kill him, not so much to bury your dead, but her own as well."  
  
  
  
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	5. The Wages of Sin

_Chapter Six: The Wages of Sin___

At times, he was the Donn of legend, helping to escort his decedents to the other world.

He lay like a panther, amongst the trees, waiting for the target to appear. The woods he'd positioned himself within were tucked away more than a quarter mile across the airport from the target, but they gave him a clean view of the Federal Transfer Facility's terminal gateway, where a cargo jet would soon be taxiing into position to disembark. 

The United States Federal Transfer Center was one of the most beautiful prisons Donn had ever seen. It was a huge, multi-storey complex that had a circle for a core with six triangular wings jutting out from it. From a distance, it appeared to be a huge, sandstone-coloured hexagon, but close up, it more closely resembled a spoked wheel. The grounds were sculpted neatly with lush, green landscaping; carefully crafted tree lines and shrubs that were designed to disguise the fact that here, in the midst of one of this country's largest airports, was a callous reminder of this "great society's" grim underbelly.

The Will Rogers International airport provided him with a wall of sound for a backdrop, so there was no reason to use a suppressor. The Tango 51 was held secure by the tripod that anchored into the McMillan Fibreglass stock. It was a beautiful machine, and one of the most accurate sniper rifles in the world. The .308 Winchester loads would make his work short and easy.

He hadn't killed much these past five years, so the next few days would be both a rush, and a challenge.

Insects and small animals had been crawling over, and nestling up to, him over the past several hours, as he lay prone waiting. If he remembered correctly, Oklahoma was home to several varieties of venomous snakes, including rattlers. He'd left his knife beside him in case there were any unexpected visitors. As for the other animals, they were welcome visitors and company on his lonely vigil.

He'd dug the trench in a matter of minutes with his field shovel, exhuming the deep, fragrant soil of the woods. He'd covered it with the small camouflage tarp, and then kicked dirt and debris over the newly formed burrow. For someone to find him, they would have to literally stumble over him. Once inside the narrow hole, he positioned the rifle and then shoved dirt toward the opening, so the only thing even slightly visible to a passer-by would be the almost invisible, black 24" barrel.

The sounds of the planes landing and taking off were deafening, but he'd avoided the use of earplugs, because he would need his hearing to stay alert. As he lay there, his mind went back to the old stories, the ones his mam had told him as a boy, about the old gods. About himself, before he even knew who he was.

Donn had not always been a god. He was a man, one of the three sons of Mil that had come to Ireland with an army of Milesians to defeat the Tuatha De Danaan. Donn was the eldest of the sons, and was also their leader. He knew the strength of his army, and he knew they would take the island easily.

When their great flat boats had landed on the rocky shores, and the men had disembarked from the calm seas, a lovely goddess had wandered from the woods to greet them. The sons of Mil and their army were enchanted by her beauty, for she was the goddess Eriu, and represented all that was Ireland.

Donn had never seen someone such as this. Amongst the Milesians, he was used to women of dark hair and skin, who served their men well, but often appeared beaten down and defeated, their heads hung low. Donn was overcome as he approached the goddess who was adorned in golden fabrics, and glowing like the embers of a fire. Her hair was the brilliant, highlighted colour of flame, her skin was as pale as fresh goat's milk, and her eyes were the green of the seas of the Mediterranean he'd frolicked in as a child. She held her head high, meeting the men's eyes not with defiance, but not with fear either. Donn knew he had to have her.

He approached the goddess and took a knee before her.

"My Lady, are you not a god?" he asked.

"That I am, Donn, son of Mil. I am Eriu, and I have come to you to give you my blessing in your efforts, and to ask an honour of you once your battle has been won."

Donn was close enough to catch her scent, which was laden with the fragrance of heathers and lilacs. His head swan as if intoxicated.

"Eriu, I am just a humble man, what can I possibly offer a goddess?" he lied. He was as humble as a sabre, but also new how to turn a word to reach desired results.

"You shall crush your enemy, Sons of Mil, but when you take control of this island, I beseech you to name it with me in your thoughts and on your tongues."

Donn had a private smile at this.

"It had been my hopes to name this island for my father, to honour him with a show of respect for the love and life he has given me. Can you show me a token of your desire, so I know such a great decision was not made lightly."

There were mutterings from his men, and many backed away from where their leader was kneeling. They knew it was not wise to converse with a god, but to make requests was suicidal. But Donn was reckless, and this, in part, was what made him such a capable warrior and tactician.

Eriu laughed, and placing a finger beneath his chin, beckoned him to his feet. She led him into the forest that bordered the shore. After a few minutes of walking, they came to a great, green tent standing silently and unattended in the middle of the woods. There were no torches, but the tent seemed to glow with the same luminescence that clung to Eriu like a shawl. As she led Donn inside, he could see the walls of the tent for what they were, leaves and grass, knitted together in a fine mesh. He reached out his hand, and was treated to a rich, soft texture unlike anything he'd felt before.

Inside, surrounded by the strange light, Donn was allowed to investigate that pale skin, and stare into those green eyes, whose possessor received and gave pleasure the likes of which few mortal men would ever know.

When he awoke to the days light, he was alone in the clearing where the tent had stood, resting on a bed of soft grass and ferns. When the wind blew to shake the leaves on the trees about him, he could hear words carried within.

"Remember," they told him.

Their battles were short and one-sided, and soon, the island had been taken. Donn and his men held a celebration where all present became soused with drink.

During the midst of this revelry, Donn called out to his men.

"This island will forever bear witness to our victory, for we shall name it after our father, and our home," he proclaimed.

There was a hush from those that had been present when the goddess had approached him.

"But what of Eriu's request?" one of his brothers asked.

Donn scoffed and grinned his best.

"The lovemaking was good," he said. "but not that good."

Before the words had passed his lips, the sky began to darken and a great storm arose from the waters. Manannan Mac Lir, the god of the sea, had heard his words, and had become enraged to hear the lovely Eriu so slighted. He sent a storm which engulfed the terrified Milesians, and plucked Donn from their midst, carrying him out to sea, where he was drowned beneath the waves.

From the spot where he drown, a small island arose, which became known as Tech Duinn. Thereafter, Donn was transformed into the Irish god of the dead, escorting his kin to his island, and on into the afterlife.

The story always brought comfort to Donn. Inside his head, he heard the words in his mother's voice, although he'd changed it a little over the years to fit his fading memories, and his adult sensibilities.

After an eternity, the cargo jet landed on the outer runway closest to the Transfer Center. The sun was glaring down, and he would be shooting from shadow into the light. He'd brought goggles, but had laid them aside, preferring his own eyes.

Tom had told him 3 p.m., and it was 2:55 p.m. as the plane began to navigate the right angles in the runway leading to the boarding shute. One thing he liked about the Americans, they were generally on time, maybe not as exacting as the Germans, but close.

A few seconds away from show time, he reached down and clicked the transmit button on his radio once; Tom would be in motion now.

The plane would have one more 45° right turn to make before approaching the shute, but Donn had positioned himself to make sure that would never occur. The jet was now facing him head on. He brought his eye to the scope, made his target, and squeezed his 2.5 pounds on the trigger, rather than pulling. His hands were as dry as powder within his gloves, and he was rewarded with a short roar that was lost amongst the sea of jet engines.

Donn didn't wait to watch the hydraulics on the front landing gear cut loose, spewing their oily blood across the tarmac. Nor did he watch as the plane prematurely came to a halt, the nose sagging to the ground as the front wheel gave under the weight of the behemoth. He just reloaded with the precision, and the speed of hand, of a magician.

It took twenty minutes for the cart to emerge from the small terminal connected to the Federal Transfer Center by a long beige umbilical cord of a corridor. Donn had to twice trigger the radio again, keeping Tom in a patient holding pattern. When the cart did begin its short jaunt to the plane, there was no hurry involved. As he'd thought, they were assuming a malfunction with the landing gear, nothing to be concerned about. There was only one driver, and the cart was nothing more than a golf cart with delusions of grandeur, and most importantly, it was open to the air. The mechanics would come later, their first priority was to get the prisoner inside and secured. In response to the cart's arrival, the side hatch of the plane opened up, and the door descended all the way to the ground as a flight of steps. 

As the cart came along the nose of the plane, it was partially shielded from the rest of the facility. Donn was hoping to buy himself a few moments using this to his advantage.

The suit was the first off the plane. This would be the federal agent in charge of the transfer. A uniformed guard, then the target, and then two more guards followed him. A fourth guard remained just visible inside the doorway of the jet.

Donn reached down and clicked the radio twice, then he returned his eye to the scope and began to bring the dead back home.

The first shot was for the boy who was his target. The cocky young man who'd trained so well, and carried out his mission so diligently, was now beaten down. His head was hung low, and his arms and legs were chained so short he had to take penguin steps once he was lowered to the ground. Donn saved Randy any further shame by turning his head into a mesh of red vapour and visceral matter.

By the time the body had fallen to the ground, Donn had performed five easy movements, and the guard who was still just visible inside the plane's doorway, was blown back into the jet with a sizable hole in his chest.

The other men had now had four seconds to respond, the man in the suit was apparently trying to determine what angle the shots had come from. With the jet's engines cycling down, he couldn't hear the recoil, so he had nothing to go on but the direction indicated by the falling bodies. By the time he'd begun to turn to face the distant tree line where Donn was tucked away, the agent found himself looking skyward from the ground, catching a few last thoughts of his wife and two children.

With each shot, Donn appreciated the weapon even more. Remington had blue printed the action since he'd "retired," and this was his first time with a Tango in the field. He was glad he'd left the can off; it was rewarding to feel the weapon jump and roar in his hands. The cart driver came next, and then the three guards. Discharge, snap, load, aim, fire. The last guard actually made it halfway back up the steps of the jet before taking one in the back, and then one more to the base of the skull, which nearly decapitated the man, for careful measure.

Donn slid from his burrow, threw the gun back inside the hole, and then walked back into the woods. Twenty yards away was an expressway off-ramp.

He removed the black gloves, and then tore the camouflage draping from his clothing.

At the same moment the pilot looked back from the cockpit window to see the carnage that lay next to the aeroplane, Donn was already sliding into the passenger seat of Tom Barry's rental Honda Accord.

The sniper garb was rolled into a ball and stuffed under the seat. Tom casually put his arm around the assassin's shoulders as he pulled back onto the road and made for the airport.

"How did it go?" he asked, never looking over at his old friend, not wanting to see the post-kill hunger in his eyes.

"Like riding a goddam bicycle," he said in return. Breathing as calmly as a man awakening from a nap. 

The car was stashed away in long-term parking where the FBI would find it three days later. The two of them went about their rehearsed tasks silently, not speaking again, except for some Americanised banter in the terminal that was just for show, until their 4:00 p.m. flight out of Will Rogers landed in Mexico City.

The man that had once been Peter O'Sullivan opened his eyes on a new day, taking a mental inventory of his body, and logging the various aches and pains that were the hallmarks of his profession, and his last few days of activity. He'd killed nine men over the last two days, and been responsible for the deaths of another seventeen during the same period. Now, he was home, back in mother Ireland.

Home was _Tech Duinn_. Maybe not the Tech Duinn of legend, but when translated, to have his own, personal "house of the dead" seemed appropriate. The breeze coursing through the house on this early morning was cool and salty. It didn't bother Donn that it was less than ten degrees Celsius outside; he'd always slept with the windows open, and always would.

His island, for he truly owned it, even the air space above her, was one of the five Na Blascaod, which were the western most edge of Ireland, as well as all of Europe. When Donn arose, and looked out his bedroom window, there was nothing between him and Newfoundland except for water. He could, and would, just stand there for hours and look out at the unending sea of rough breakers parading up to his shore and crashing against the rugged rocks jutting out of the water like fortress walls.

Much like his neighbour, the former Taoiseach Charles J. Haughey, who owned the slightly larger, and more lavish island, Inis Mhicealláin, to the northwest, he valued, and required, his privacy and isolation. Yet, he could never leave Ireland entirely, and the island provided a convenient compromise for sequestering himself when he needed to physically, and mentally, recharge.

The island wasn't much larger than the house that occupied it. _Tech Duinn_ had been built upon ancient monastic ruins, and Donn had been very careful to make sure the original monastery walls had been preserved as much as possible, and worked into the foundation of his home. Like himself, his _Tech Duinn_ was a contradiction. It had cost tens of millions to purchase the desolate rock, and then ten million more to restore and build his home. They had to fly in the huge slabs of stone from the mainland, and the workers had to contend with a complete lack of electricity, fresh water, or even the most basic restroom facilities. You couldn't even bathe in the sea or fish from shore because the hostile rock outcroppings provided so little purchase and the violent waves crashed down continuously like a rain of hammers.

Transport, to and fro the island, was solely by ferry, and even then, it only came by when he cell-phoned the captain to include him in the route. Other, more notable and proper, members of the IRA that had visited him at _Tech Duinn_, had chided him for not installing a helipad on his "desolate rock," but he enjoyed the inaccessibility as much as the isolation. Besides, he was in a business where friends became enemies quickly, and enemies always ended up dead.

He kept some weapons here, besides those always on his person, but most of the tools of his trade were stashed in separate safe houses across the mainland, and the continent. Even if an army were to invade, there was only a tiny cove accessible by small craft, and then the treacherous climb up to the house. Donn could have held off a hundred men with a handgun out here, much less the small arsenal he had on hand.

There was a generator, but he seldom used it, firing it up just enough to make sure it stayed operational. The food he ate was simple, mostly out of cans warmed up on his gas stove, or over a fire, or eaten cold. The ferryman brought fresh water jugs whenever supplies ran low. The house was furnished well, although lightly, and there were tactful decorations that Feale had added during her time there. Feale, who had once shared this bed with him. They were just a few prints and crafty items, mostly clan-based, hanging from plain nails in the wall. He missed her, and the thought that she would have to be addressed was eating away at him, sickening him. But there was much to be done, and much had already been done, that sickened him.

He enjoyed his early mornings at _Tech Duinn_. He could lie there in bed, smelling the sea-scented air, and watching the goose bumps arise on what had once been his body. Often, memories would come to him during this quiet time, things he normally wouldn't take the time to think about, and today was no exception.

He'd been eight years old when his mother, Sarah, had been forced to move from his childhood home. Most of the community knew what had happened to his father, and knew why. Although many of the people who went to their church treated them well, most treated them like the plague, and his mother was unable to find a job that could support them. The IRA was more than just a political, or military entity; it was a family as well. To them, Timothy O'Sullivan had died a hero, and they saw the care of his family as a duty. They had come to his mother wearing the faces of friends, fellow parishners, to tell her they could help her find employment, and help make sure her young son would be brought up in the church, but they would have to be moved from Belfast, where so many eyes were upon them. He didn't remember much of that time, from speaking to his mother later in life, he knew that he'd withdrawn. In a different place and time, he would have received therapy, but they could barely afford to eat. His mother told him he was always hiding as a boy, and would disappear for hours, in what amounted to a terrifying game of hide and seek for her. He could go more than an entire month without speaking more than a handful of words. Eventually, she knew she couldn't afford to give him the care he needed, and the same sympathetic voices that had told her to move from Belfast, with their promises of employment, and a new life, told her there was a safe place where her son could be raised and cared for until she regained her footing and financial security. Without any real choice, Sarah agreed.

Saint Peter's Youth Hostel was both a shock and a life preserver for young Peter. Most of the boys were teenagers, either tourists, staying in Ireland, or vagabonds, working their way across Europe. He was lost among these young, intimidating giants. Tom Barry could tell right away Peter would become a target; his age, his size, his silence, these things all made him stand out, and to teenage boys, that was enough to make him a pariah, and a whipping boy. So Tom took Peter to be his own, and moved him into his own rooms at the hostel. They took their meals and Mass with the other boys, but he was spared the dormitory and slept in Tom's guest room.

Slowly, he began to talk to Tom, and to Maelisa as well. Maelisa was the house mom for the boys, keeping the place clean, and doing the lion's share of the cooking. She was a young widow, who much like Peter's own mother, has lost her husband to the British. She often shared Tom's bed, and it gave Peter a sense of family that helped to heal him even further. And their family was to soon grow.

Feale McCann was Peter's junior by two years. She was a little, redheaded scruff of a girl who'd been abandoned in a pew at Saint Peter's Cathedral, which financially supported the hostel. One of the priests approached Tom about taking her in. Peter had felt an instant kinship with the girl. She, too, was silent, and withdrawn from everyone, including himself. It took Tom, Maelisa, and him weeks to even pry her name from her, and she never spoke of her life prior to Saint Pete's, even in adulthood. Although all the boys of St. Pete's were Tom's children, the two of them were his family. As children, they walked to school together, as youths, they trained to become soldiers together, and as teenagers, they became passionate lovers.

Donn lay there smiling with his memories, when a rattling came from elsewhere in his home. Tom Barry, a guest in his house, for a change, was already stirring; rummaging in the kitchen, Donn assumed, from the sounds that drifted into his bedroom. There had been little reason for Tom to return to St. Pete's. Maelisa could easily look after the boys, and if the Sein Fenn were able to connect the two of them to the deaths of the operatives over the last two days, they would both be dead soon enough, but there was no sense making it easy. Hopefully, it would be written off on a confidence breech, and the English cleaning house. Tom had prepared elaborate alibis to make it appear he was off in Canada visiting his brother, while Donn was considered a private freelancer who had virtually disappeared five years earlier. Both of them were unquestioned in their allegiance to the cause, so hopefully things would blow over.

After his morning callisthenics, and taking the damnable pills, Donn joined Tom in the kitchen, where the other man was warming up one of the dozens of cans of corned beef stew the assassin kept stocked in the cupboard. The older man was standing above the stove, rubbing his hands together, and splaying them above the grates in an attempt to warm his bones.

"Couldn't you at least have a goddam space heater, and maybe a few lights?" he griped.

Barry had been a father to him since his natural father's unnatural death. Much like the boys that had stayed at St. Peter's Youth Hostel over the past few years, Donn and Feale had been raised under his tutelage and care, learning up close about Ireland's history, and her age old struggle for freedom.

Watching the large man wolf down his stew, Donn realised Tom had taught him a lot about duality, as well. Tom was, as he often appeared, a large, dark haired Irishman who loved life. He did everything big. He ate big, drank big, and loved big. Donn had grown up on the receiving end of constant bear hugs from the man, but at the same time, he'd seen those arms used to snap a man's neck behind closed doors. This was a man who was capable of selling arms to Satan himself if there were profit to be made, and yet, he would turn around and dole out the same money to help the Church, or the widows of fallen soldiers.

Donn had forced down a few spoonfuls of soup, but was now content to just watch his friend eat.

"Does it make you feel remorseful that the boys are dead?" Donn asked the older man.

For a moment, Tom paused, but then dug back into his meal, ignoring the question, just as he ignored Donn's probing gaze.

Fourteen boys had been recruited from Saint Peter's over the past five years for Donn's use, out of the hundreds that had passed through his doors during that time. Before that, Tom had supplied the IRA exclusively for over twenty years. The boys who didn't go overseas for special training were turned into valuable fundraisers for the cause. But the hostel was not just a recruiting tool. Barry's wife had died of ovarian cancer while still relatively young, and the man had been denied not just the love of his life, but the family he craved as well. The Irish, especially the Catholics, loved big families, and it wasn't uncommon to see households of fourteen, fifteen children. Big Tom would have had enough love and energy to go around, in such a family, but as it was, he'd remained dedicated to his wife's memory, and all hopes of his own family were retired to wistful mourning. The children of the hostel were the recipients of that love, now, and the ones that were smart enough, strong enough, and dedicated enough, were brought into Tom's new family, the Sein Fenn. Tom saw himself as their mentor, and to the special ones that went to train in Syria, or Libya, or any of a half dozen other countries, he was a friend, as well.

"Too bad we couldn't go out to a pub for a nip," Tom said in reply to Donn's constant stare. "And I'm sure the food would be a damn site nicer, as well. Not to mention the female company."

Barry had made no secret of his dislike of Donn's plans in regards to Bond. As Sein Fenn, he was all for killing the man, who'd become something of an underground celebrity over the years. Any blow to Britain was a good blow. But as a father, he'd attempted to talk Donn out of it five years earlier when the assassin had came to him with his seemingly insane intentions, and his pleas for help. And Tom had continued to try and talk him out of it every step of the way. 

Tom paused in his eating again, this time dropping his spoon into the bowl in a show of frustration, which he then accentuated by slamming his fist down onto the table.

"Not everything has to do with your personal little war, Peter," Barry said. "When I picked those kids out, I knew what was going to happen in the end, and they each knew they might die. Hell, it's probably what some of them wanted; give their deaths more meaning than their lives would have ever had. Hell, you and Feale are just about the only ones left who haven't gone off and gotten yourselves killed. I helped train you, Peter, I figured you were going to scorch earth on this one, clean up the loose ends. I know it's best; each of those kids cost the Sein Fenn about a hundred thousand pounds to recruit and train, and if they figure out what's happened, then we're both dead."

But I'm already dead, a voice whispered in the back of Donn's mind. I drowned in these waters a thousand years ago. 

"So our rabbit has gone to ground? We're sure?" Donn asked.

Tom picked up his spoon and resumed his lunch.

"Bond should have arrived today. All you have to do is claim your prize."

"And Feale is still there as well?"

Barry grimaced at this one, there was still a gallant inside this man who didn't want to see "his only little girl" get hurt.

"Yes," he replied, somewhat reluctantly.

"Good," Donn said. "Then it will be coming to an end, soon. Colleen will be leaving tomorrow."

"And when will I be going?" Barry asked. Donn could detect the resignation in his faux father's voice; the man knew what was coming.

Donn felt the sadness well within him, and if he were still capable of tears, if life hadn't beaten the ability to cry out of him, he would have shed them there.

The assassin took out the H&K USP .45 he'd kept at his waist and laid it on the table next to his abandoned soup.

"All these years later, and I'm just another loose end," Tom said, shaking his head incredulously. 

"I have to burn clean on this one. They can't have anything left on me, nothing to hurt me with."

The tears had no problem welling in Tom Barry's eyes as they danced between the man he considered to be his own son and the gun that lay on the table.

"I love you," Donn told him.

"I love you too," the older man replied. "You'd best let me get this one."

There in the early morning light of the cold, sea-scented dining room, Tom pulled his own gun and tucked it neatly into his mouth.

"But," Donn started to say, before his words were lost in the blast that sent most of the back of his friend's head across the far wall.  "You can't," he finished. "it's a mortaller."  
  
  



	6. Living with the Dead

**_Chapter Seven: Living with the Dead_**   


James Bond changed into the clothes Marc-Ange had provided him with. It was a simple white shirt that buttoned up the front and had billowing arms made of a heavy woven fabric that scratched at his skin like a luffa sponge. The pants were large as well; a dull, tan earth tone that secured about his waste with a tie cord. For his feet, there was a pair of brown walking shoes, which met the demands of the terrain well, as long as he didn't venture too deep into the _maquis_, or too high up the mountains. 

A room had been prepared for Bond on the third storey of his father-in-law's home. With the last vestige of light dwindling away, Bond had been thankful to find electric lights awaited him, as well as a very modern bathroom off of his bedroom. His first move upon entering the room was to check the window, swinging it wide open to allow the evening air to breeze in. This high up, even in July, the mountain breeze was cool and made the light drapes dance back from the sill. 

He was looking down over a back street that separated Marc-Ange's home from another row of housing, and then the outside wall. In the fading light, Bond could see an empty field beyond the wall, at the edge of which, stood a few low, broad buildings resembling stables, or possibly barracks. There were lights on inside these as well. Bond made a mental note to ask Draco about them, given the opportunity this evening. 

Although the deep _maquis_ was distant, there was still a fresh, green smell to the air, air delightfully free of the mechanized background chatter of most of the western world. The only sounds coming to him as he stood next to the open doorway were the night insects, the sounds of tables being set up out front of the house, and the chatter of the village children who still ruled the streets. 

Bond ran some cold water in the bathroom (hot and cold water, another blessing) to splash on his face. He thought of shaving the stubble that was beginning to gather on his chin, but decided against it. Better to look a little rough and fit in. With his dark hair and the clothing that had been provided, he wouldn't stand out too much until he opened his mouth. Although his French was excellent, and he could easily pass for a Parisian, the Corsican accent was difficult to emulate, and the Corsican language, that odd mesh of Italian, French, and a half dozen other tongues, was a mystery to him. He ran his wet hands through his hair a few times, and then brushed it back. Standing away from the mirror, he thought he resembled a poor man's Errol Flynn, sans the moustache. 

He'd felt strange climbing the stairs of the huge house, his new clothes folded in his arms. His father-in-law was a loving, exuberant man, and yet, the place was empty. He had little doubt he and Marc-Ange were the only ones there. This was a powerful man, who was obviously well liked by the loyal villagers who shared the compound, but his home was not filled with family in a culture where nothing mattered more. His wife and only daughter, dead, and no grandchildren to scurry about the tiled floors of his mansion. Bond felt another pang of guilt; was part of this legacy his fault as well? Teresa might very well have lived if Bond had just walked away from her that first night, lived and raised a family that could have made this man truly happy. Bond let the old thought creep into his head as to what his and Tracy's children may have looked like had they been given the time. 

There was something different to Marc-Ange this time, however. Toussaint had mentioned the Capu's recent happiness, and now Bond had witnessed an extra verve to the man he'd never seen before. Was it possible the wily old Corsican had found someone to share his _Amour de vie_ with? He didn't sense a female touch, or smell, to the house, and yet, this was no guarantee. Although quite the _bandit d'honneur_ in his younger days, the older Capu was more conservative. Maybe he was taking his time. This brought a rare smile to Bond's face. 

"What are you doing up there, James?" Marc-Ange called from the bottom of the stairs. "You take more time to get ready than a woman. The musicians are set to play, and the people grow hungry."   
  


Bond took in the street that greeted him and Marc-Ange as they stepped out the front door. In addition to a huge, blazing roasting pit off to the right, there were oil lamps everywhere; glass bowls of every colour imaginable. They lined the tables set in a circle on the stone paved streets, they were also strung from cords which criss-crossed overhead the entire setting, and they were set on staffs around the perimeter. The colours of the lamps decorated the white facades of the houses and the grey stones of the wall with flickering, stained glass beauty. 

Toussaint may have been a little liberal in his estimate of the village's population, Bond found, for there were well over two hundred people gathered about the scene, standing in circles or seated at the numerous tables. So far, the two of them hadn't drawn much attention. 

Bond turned to his father-in-law, only to find the older man observing his reactions. 

"We are a simple people, James, but we still appreciate the things that are best in life." 

"Where in God's name did all the tables come from? I can't imagine you just called a caterer." There were about thirty wooden tables in the circle, each with its own lamp, plates, and dining ware. 

"The families each bring their own kitchen table, along with at least one meal item, and an ample supply of wine." 

A sea of faces slowly began to turn toward the two men who still stood at the entrance of Marc-Ange's home. As the conversations slowly died down to near silence except for the chattering of the children, Marc-Ange raised his arms above himself and silenced the remaining voices with gestures of quiet. So much for keeping a low profile, thought Bond. 

"My friends," Marc-Ange said loudly in French. "My son has come to visit me from England. This brings much joy to my heart, as does your honouring us so with this feast. All I ask is that you treat him as one of your own, and share with him the same love you share with me." 

There was a cheer of acknowledgement from the crowd, and a few shouts of greeting directed toward Bond. He smiled and nodded in return. 

"And men, watch you daughters, lest you find you have an English son-in-law of your own." Laughter erupted from those gathered. "Now," the Capu concluded. "Let us eat together." 

As they descended the final steps, several of the villagers came up to clap Bond on the back and shake his hand. James would have taken this as an attempt to win good favour with Marc-Ange, but there was genuine affection in the eyes of those who greeted him. 

The five-man band, replete with guitars and light percussion equipment, began to play from somewhere near the roasting pit, and the party began in earnest. At some point a glass of rosé was thrust into his hand, a glass that would never be empty throughout the evening. 

The villagers had taken a cue from Marc-Ange's address and were all speaking French. 

Toussaint was one of the first to pump his hand, and the old, leathery Corsican surprised Bond by introducing him to his own family with an out-stretched arm. 

"My wife, Emma," the woman was even more wrinkled than her husband, but greeted Bond with kisses to both cheeks which he returned in kind. 

"I raised Teresa from the time she was a little girl," she told him, tears standing in her eyes. "After her mother left us. They tell me you killed this man Blofeld with your bare hands, I just hope he is in Hell and knows what he took from all of us." 

Bond hugged her and gave her thanks. The truth, he knew, was that men like Blofeld killed without thought. They had no more sympathy for those they murdered than they would for an insect they stepped on while walking down the street. 

Several of the parents that approached him were more than zealous in introducing him to their unmarried daughters of proper age. Bond showered them with compliments, all the time watching Marc-Ange laughing at, and winking to, him. 

Finally, after twenty minutes of hand pressing, back clapping, kissing, and embracing, he and Marc-Ange took their places at, true to his word, Draco's kitchen table, which had been brought out to join the circle. Bond's mind was overwhelmed with more than a hundred names and faces, attempting to commit all to memory. 

The unmarried women of the village, most of whom Bond had been introduced to, were now buzzing about, swooping down and filling glasses like a flock of seagulls feeding on bread crumbs. Bond's glass had garnered special attention, and seemed to be refilled after every draught he took. 

"If their intention is to get me drunk," he told Marc-Ange. "It isn't necessary. They are an attractive lot." 

Marc-Ange laughed. 

"You are correct. Corsican women are devoted and beautiful. You see in them the comeliness of the French and Italians, but the Corsican heart beating within is the true prize. This is a world that doesn't understand devotion any longer, but here, things are the same as they've always been. I truly don't care if I ever leave this place again. All those years I spent living in France," he spat on the ground after the last, disgusted. "it taught me to appreciate what I have here." 

"But then why did you marry an Englishwoman?" Bond couldn't help but point out the irony. The women were now passing out long baguettes to each of the table settings. As the guest, Bond was served first, the woman who handed it to him held the bread for a moment after Bond had taken it. Bond looked up into a beautiful, dark oval face with rounded lips and brilliant green eyes. She winked at him and gave a laugh before moving on to the next table. 

Marc-Ange watched all of this with good humour. 

"If you grow up on a fine vineyard, always drinking the best vintages the world has to offer, then a Coca Cola may taste exciting and exotic to you. It is hard to have perspective as a young man. But I don't say this to insult my dear wife, God rest her soul. Her heart would have made a fine Corsican, although it was hard to keep her happy here. She took a bandit, and helped make him into a respected, educated man. Much like my daughter, I had a taste for the English. I guess I still do." 

The last caught Bond's attention, and he was going to comment upon it, but a steaming bowl of what smelled like ambrosia was placed in front of him by the beauty with green eyes. 

"My God," he said. "This smells like heaven." 

"It is_ Cabrettu a l'istrettu_, it is a kid stew, filled with the herbs of the _maquis._ I hope your repressed English palate is ready for a shock." 

James Bond took a sip of the broth, and his appetite roared to life. The soup was spicy, but thick with flavour. He tore off a piece of baguette, and attacked the dish voraciously. 

"Save some, James," Marc-Ange informed him. "Everything we eat tonight will be traditional Corsican. I told them to give you a taste of the land." 

For the first time since Houston, Bond felt himself beginning to relax. The rosé was full and kept on coming. Before the first course was done, his head was swimming and he was talking and laughing with the people of the surrounding tables as if he'd been there all his life. 

Next up were rolls stuffed with goat, lamb, and black bird that Marc-Ange called _Stifatu. _Following the lead of the people at the tables about him, Bond picked up a roll with his hands and bit into it. The band had ceased playing by now, and they too had joined in the meal and wine. 

A pair of village men were carving the pigs Bond had smelled roasting all evening, and the bounty was delivered to the tables by the girls. They were at a distance, but he could swear that he recognized one of the young carvers. He attempted to place the man, but drew a blank. Besides, he decided, there were so many new names and faces, everyone looked familiar. 

"The swine are brought in from the Castagniccia where they have been raised on chestnuts," Marc-Ange informed him. 

The pork was smoky and had a sweet, nutty quality to it. Bond had eaten and drank more than he had known was wise, but the sense of community and safety here was compelling enough that he was willing to let his guard down, or at least give it a rest. 

Toussaint and his family were seated at the table directly to Bond's left. In addition to Emma, there was also a daughter, Michele, who still lived at home. Toussaint had made no secret of what fine wife material she would be. Bond placed the girl's age in her late twenties, practicably an old maid by Corsican standards. Le Pouff had also introduced his son, Jaques, who had a family of his own, and was seated at the table at the left of his parents'. 

James Bond was as close to inebriated as he allowed himself to become. Even though it was summer, the air was becoming chillier as a breeze worked its way over the high walls of the compound. The hair rose on his arms and an involuntary shiver shook him for a moment. 

"The mountains provide our air conditioning," the always-observant Marc-Ange told him. "Once everyone has had a chance to make peace with their meal, and have a few more glasses of wine to aid in digestion, the dancing will begin. A little physical activity will warm your blood nicely." 

"I feel more like sleeping after that meal. It may be best if I were to just retire early." What Bond truly wanted to say was he didn't feel much like prancing about like a fool, especially so soon after Sam. But Marc-Ange would have none of his denials. 

"That is nonsense, James. It would be an insult to these people to deny them your presence after such a fuss was made over your arrival. Dancing with a good Corsican woman would help you forget the cold, and whatever else may need forgetting. The dead don't care what you do, all you will accomplish in mourning, is not living yourself." 

And so he was resigned to an evening of living it up.   
  
He drank, he ate, and he said the right things to the sea of jovial faces. As the hour grew later, and the last of the day's light retreated to the west leaving the scene to the lights of the lamps, and the brilliant, unpolluted view of the stars above, some of the older villagers drifted by Marc-Ange's table to bid the Capu a good evening. The ever-present army of children also began to disappear as their parents escorted them to their early bedtimes, although their faces would later appear again in their bedroom windows, once the dancing began. 

Once the meal was done, as the musicians began to stretch their fingers, Marc-Ange prodded James into saying a few words to the crowd. 

As he rose to his feet, checking his balance along the way, Bond looked to the roasting pit, where the two cooks were cleaning the spits after having stripped the last of the pork away from the bones. The young man whom Bond found so familiar was looking over the crowd as well as he performed his duties, apparently searching for someone. 

The crowd acknowledged Bond with a greeting of claps and whistles, and he silenced them with the same motioning of the arms that had been so effective for Marc-Ange. As he gave his simple words of thanks, he kept a trained eye on the man by the pit. One great advantage of his SIS training was being able to watch without giving his attention away from the crowd. 

The young man had apparently found his own object of attention as his gaze had locked onto the green-eyed angel who had been serving Bond. Even from this distance, Bond could recognize the look of longing in the young man's eyes, and assume the man was readying his personal dance card for the evening. There was a slight tweak of competition in Bond's heart, for the flirtatious girl was certainly a beauty, and had aroused more than just his attention. 

"I can see the musicians are ready," Bond was closing as the girl grew near with her apparently bottomless jug of wine. "Many of you here, knew my wife, Teresa. I live in a world far away from this place, with only a few pictures and my memories of her. But with Marc-Ange, and all of you here, it makes her seem much closer. I thank you for that, even more than I thank you for this wonderful meal." 

As James sat down and quickly dispatched his glass of rosé, the crowd responded with more clapping. Marc-Ange was slyly grinning at him. 

"One day in Corsica, James, and you have already begun to exhibit more heart. Either that, or you're beginning to soften with age." 

This were not welcome words to Bond's ears. Sentiment equalled sloppiness in his profession. He'd given in to it before, after Tracy's death, and has almost lost himself, and his life, because of it. 

He slapped Marc-Ange on the back, "More than likely, it's just the drink." 

The older man laughed and shook his head as if to say he knew better. 

The musicians laid their tuned instruments aside, and began to sing a ballad in harmonious polyphony, the distinctive musical tradition of the Corsican people. Couples began to join hands and slip between the tables and into the ring created by the diners. Wishing to hide from his own sentimentality, Bond thankfully turned away when someone tapped his shoulder from behind. 

He turned to look into the face of his angel. Her long dark hair was pinned above her head in a loose bun, displaying a long, beautiful neck. Her tan peasant dress was sloped to reveal a shoulder. Her skin was lighter than most Corsicans, and seemed to breath luminescence in the pulsing light of the coloured glass lanterns. Bond found the urge to bury his face in that skin somewhat disturbing when juxtaposed with the thoughts of his wife that had filled him moments earlier. But if there had been a lesson he'd learned today, from the gravestones on the hill to Marc-Ange's words, it was, that in Corsica, the dead were never that far away, and that the best way to honour them was to go on living yourself. 

She smiled at him in response to his quick perusal of her athletic, well-sculpted figure. The girl reached out and brushed the comma of black hair that had fallen over his eye back into place. 

"Would you honour me with your first dance, _Monsieur_ Bond?" Bond turned to Marc-Ange Draco, who shrugged his shoulders and laughed. 

"I would honour you in any way you would like," Bond replied, rising to his feet. "But please, call me James. And you are?" 

The girl had taken his hand in her delicate fingers and was beginning to tug him along. 

"My name is Marie-Claude, you know, like the ballerina," with this, she giggled and pulled him forward again. 

"Marie!" a male voice called from behind them. 

The woman and Bond turned together. It was the man from beside the fire, but up close there was no mistaking his features, and Bond was confronted with yet another Corsican ghost. 

"Che Che?" Bond stuttered, knowing he was speaking the name of a dead man. 

In what seemed a task requiring great effort, the young man looked away from Marie to Bond. 

"Yes," he replied in perfect, well-educated English. "I am Che Che, but a different one than you would remember, Mr. Bond." 

This was for certain, for the Che Che Bond had known had been spread over the top of Piz Gloria in a vicious explosion during their raid of Blofeld's base. 

"He is his father's image, is he not?" Marc-Ange chirped from the table a few feet away. 

That he was. He towered over Bond, at a muscular six and a half foot tall, and had the same yellow-brown eyes and splayed ears. He even had the elder's horribly bent, broken nose. His hair, like most Corsicans, was jet black, and he had dark, olive-coloured skin._ Le Persuadeur_ had not been a beautiful man, and his son was his spitting image. 

"And the young lady whose hand you're holding is his fiancée," Che Che added. 

Up to this point, Marie-Claude had gone silent, lost in the English language, which was clearly unknown to her, but the word "fiancée" was French enough for her ears. 

"Intentions, do not count, Che Che! I have not accepted your proposal, and to shut me out by speaking about me in _Englis _is not going to prod me in the right direction," Marie was shouting now, as only the hot-blooded women of the Mediterranean can. Bond had always found the tempers of Corsican, Italian, and Greek women added spice to their beauty. And their wrathful indignation was almost always a conscious, passionate display, like a male peacock spreading his plumage. 

So Bond watched with inner amusement as Che Che, a powerful, giant of a man, took a step back from the girl. 

Brought in by the scene, and the chance for some local gossip, a small crowd had begun to gather. Bond realised what was a beautiful distraction for him, was obviously the love of this young man's life, and he was beginning to look for a way to bow out before the young man lost too much face. Bond knew well, it was never a wise thing to cause a Corsican undue embarrassment; besides, he was indebted to Che Che's father who might still be alive if it hadn't been for Bond's lust to bring Blofeld down. 

Very aware of the watching eyes, Che Che tried to recover. 

"Marie, whether you have agreed, or not, you have told me of your love, and have returned mine. You may dance with your handsome stranger all night, but shouldn't you save the first dance for the man who will be your husband?" 

Marie-Claude seemed to weigh this for a moment, taking in the attention of the crowd, and obviously having fun with the situation while Che Che was agonizingly twisting in the wind. 

"Why not a contest for the young lady's attentions?" Marc-Ange suggested with a grin. 

Bond rolled his eyes, and resisted the temptation to kick his father-in-law. But Marie's face lit up with excitement; the idea of two men competing for her favour was obviously very appealing to the girl. 

The gathering had grown larger now. Several of the dancing couples had stopped and joined the assembly, which numbered now thirty people or more, and they cheered at the proposal of a contest. 

"A test," Marie shouted, and the crowd responded. She turned and whispered something to Toussaint's daughter who stood up from her table and ran off delightedly into the dark to fetch something. 

Che Che shook his head, but now wore a determined look on his face. He shrugged his shoulders at Bond, as if to say there was little he could do. 

Bond now welcomed the situation, however. This was his way out. All he had to do was lose whatever game was at hand, and Che Che could have his dance, and regain his stature. He never welcomed losing, but his lusty thoughts for Marie had been replaced by lusty thoughts of a good night's sleep in a firm bed. Too much wine and good food were beginning to catch up with him. 

Michele returned with a live hen tucked under an arm. This was not a heavy, egg-laying bird, but a thin, free-range chicken, the same kind that had been skittering about the streets when Bond had first ridden into town that afternoon. 

Marie took the offered bird and held it high to the crowd's delight. 

"The game is simple," she declared. "Whoever returns with the hen, will accompany me this evening." She winked at Bond vivaciously; making it obvious to everyone the winner might look forward to more than a dance. 

Bond was more concerned about Che Che now, who appeared to be steaming as his beloved played the part of a trollop, even if it was clear she was just trying to goad him on. 

The girl threw the bird into the air and the crowd cheered yet again. Neither man moved, at first, as the hen struck the ground, and rather than bolting, just stood there and began to make short work of some of the table droppings from the meal. 

Instead, Che Che turned to Bond, and offered his hand to him. 

"I apologise in advance, Mr. Bond," he once again spoke in English. "I have nothing but respect for you, but I must win this." 

Bond, impressed, reached out his own hand, and was about to tell this new Che Che to call him "James" when the other man used that unpredictable, Corsican quickness that made them so adept at hand-to-hand and knife fights to grab the agent's pro-offered hand. He lifted it high in the air while walking under their joined arms and twisting Bond so the agent's arm was driven up behind his own back. It was a basic move, and one for which Bond knew a dozen counters, but it was performed so quickly there was no time to respond. The muscular Corsican then proved his strength by grabbing Bond's left shoulder with his left hand, while still pinning the smaller man's right arm behind his back with his own, and throwing the agent cleanly over Toussaint's family table and out of the circle. 

The crowd roared their approval as Bond came crashing down on the far side of the table, only to find himself laying on top of Emma, Toussaint's wife, who had cushioned his fall. 

Bond started to apologize, but before he could say more than a couple of words, Emma kissed him on his cheek that was only inches from her own. "Fear not, James," she informed him. "Corsican women are tough, now go get him." 

Bond turned back to the circle in a three-point stance. Having lost face of his own now, and being more than slightly inebriated, he had now decided he would compete for the young lady's attentions after all. 

The bird, now pursued, had bolted, and Che Che was close behind. Bond rose from his stance like a hurdler and leaped over the upended table and back into the chase. 

The band had changed their pace to a faster version of the traditional song _A ghjallina_ to keep pace with the action. The remaining dancers, oblivious to the contest, began to dance more animatedly, almost polkaing to the faster melody. 

The chicken, following instinct, sought shelter amongst the forest of the dancer's legs. 

Che Che excused his way into the crowd in pursuit, trying to gently pry his way between the couples, but Bond would have none of it. He ploughed into the crowd and leapt onto the back of the larger man, sending both of them sprawling to the ground, a sea of bodies falling about them. 

The crowd moved along with them to keep a better eye on the action, but oblivious to Bond, several newcomers had joined the villagers. 

He regained his feet quickly, as Che Che struggled beneath him. Bond looked about for the bird, spotting it skirting beneath the tables on the far side of the circle, making for the relative safety of a small grove of olive trees growing along the perimeter wall. The lamps ended at the trees, and if the bird made it beyond them, Marie-Claude would just have to dance by herself this evening. 

Bond bolted for the tables between him and the bird, quite aware of the heavy foot falls raining down directly behind him. 

With an audience of more than a hundred now, not counting the children at their windows, following the action, Bond leaped into the air once again, planning to clear the tables as he'd done a few moments before. The chicken was less than fifteen feet away, catching its breath beneath the first olive tree at the edge of the clearing. 

Instead of clearing the tables, two vice-like hands grabbed onto his trailer leg while he was still airborne, and awkwardly twisted and snapped his body about in mid air. He screamed as his back and leg were jerked about like a bent wire, and the crowd gasped at what had once been playful fun, but was now taking a vicious turn. 

Still airborne, Bond was swung back around in a 360 degree circle, his own momentum being used against him, and was thrown over the tables, clearing them much less gracefully than he'd originally intended. 

Even in pain, Bond had still been sharp enough to catch the new face in attendance, as he'd been swung about. There was a lithe looking red head with short-cropped hair that couldn't have looked less Corsican if she'd been wearing mouse ears and EuroDisney T-shirts. She was attired in solid black garb and wore a Kalashnikov Saiga-410 semi-automatic shotgun slung over her shoulder. She had a scowl on what would have otherwise been an attractive face. She had her hands on her hips, her whole body an expression of disgust. Bond recognized the girl from her file, Feale McCann, one of the IRA's higher-ranked assassins, standing amongst the people of _Mounte Paese_ as if she had been born and raised there. His last thought, before striking the ground in a semi-conscious heap, was that he'd been delivered unto the enemy. 

Bond couldn't move, much less rise, to defend himself, but his eyes were still open, recording the events before them. 

He could see Che Che push the tables aside, still in pursuit of the hen, but now taking his time, clucking gently and snapping his fingers at the unhurried bird. There was no need for a chase with the competition disabled. 

Someone ran up to Bond from the side and knelt down next to him, it was Marie. She was crying and whispering apologies to him. She had only been playing, she assured him, and no one was supposed to get hurt. She loved Che Che, but Corsican men could be so crazy sometimes. 

Bond was starting to come to his senses and raised an arm to the quiet the girl. 

"Behind you," he groaned. 

Marie turned and screamed. McCann had drawn a flat-bladed throwing knife, and cocked it back with a straight arm, as any well-trained individual would. It was a Colt 18, a fine weapon, Bond's groggy mind registered, and one he'd used himself. The blade was held perfectly horizontal between her thumb and forefinger. 

Though still defenceless, Bond didn't close his eyes; he wanted to see his death coming. 

The arm came forward and the knife slid perfectly from her fingers. _A nice throw,_ was all Bond could think, _very professional form._

The weapon sliced through the air, sailing by Che Che's shoulder, and pinned the neck of the hen against the base of the olive tree where it twitched and sputtered for a few moments before surrendering the ghost. 

Che Che turned back to face the woman with his own expression of disgust. 

"Feale, what the hell did you do that for?" 

The woman strode forward in a purposeful fashion. She pulled her knife from the tree, and picked up the dead chicken. Wiping her blade clean on the feathers, she walked over to where Marie sat, bent over Bond. 

Marie-Claude was quickly wiping away her tears as the other woman stood above her like a disapproving goddess. Feale McCann dropped the nearly beheaded chicken at the other woman's side, and then turned to go. 

Bond was confused as all hell, but before he could analyse the situation too much, McCann turned back around, walked over to where he lay crumpled, and pulled back her foot, issuing a vicious kick to his already bruised rib cage. 

James Bond clenched his eyes at the pain, and heard the Irish woman's footfalls stomping away. 

When he opened his eyes again, Marc-Ange's horizontal, but still-grinning face filled his entire field of view. "James, meet my little ball of hate."   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	7. Foxes Guarding the Hen House

 SEQ CHAPTER \h \r 1**_Chapter Eight: Foxes Guarding the Hen House_**

          James Bond slept, again blissfully unaware of his surroundings, but he was not so far gone that he did not appreciate the feel of a feminine hand being coursed through his hair.  And unless his senses had completely abandoned him, he was laying in a woman's lap as well, his head firmly cradled against taunt, full breasts.

          However, the flesh beneath him was quivering, and as his hearing began to join his other senses in their return to the waking world, he became aware of the sound of crying.

          Few things disturbed Bond more than the sounds of a woman's wailing.  In most, it brought out sympathetic overtones, some long buried masculine guilt that gelded men and turned them into subservient zombies.  Feminine hysterics, to Bond's ears and eyes, were either a ploy, or a weakness, neither of which were useful commodities to him.

          The juxtaposition of these two extremes; the comforting feel of a woman's embrace, and the cacophonous grating of a woman's sobs, were enough to bring him out of his sleeping state momentarily, where his body's pain was waiting to claim him, and remind him that all was not well in his world.  Well, at least he was still alive, McCann had not slit his throat during the night, and he did take some solace in that.

          His eyes cracked open, to find himself back in Marc-Ange's house, once again in the little room appointed to him.  

          The warm embrace, and the tears, belonged to Marie, his green-eyed angel of the night before.  He was still dreadfully tired, and his body begged him for more healing time, but alas, there would be no sleeping while this woman insisted on dripping tears on his face.

          She was still beautiful in the morning light, something that couldn't be truthfully told about many of the women he'd encountered over the years.  Her festival dress of the night before was gone now, replaced by a peasant garb of rough, beige fabric, but the woman beneath was still the same.  Her head was bent over him so that her long, black hair cascaded over him like the canopy of a dark rich forest, and her eyes shone down through that forest like an emerald sun onto his own waking pools of blue-grey.

          She gasped, and blessedly, the bawling ceased.

          "You are awake," she told him.

          "Somewhat," he groaned through a dry, unused throat.

          She smiled at this, and kissed him full on the lips.  There was nothing too drawn out, or passionate, about the contact, but he took a moment to enjoy it all the same.  She tasted sweet, and her full lips were inviting.  There was no passion now, but there was a hint of what that passion could be, and it was substantial.

          Marie broke away from the kiss, still smiling down at him.  There was relief in her eyes, but something else as well.  When he moved his head about in her lap to get a better look, Bond could feel the fabric sliding across bare skin; there was no need to use imagination when it came to what she was wearing beneath her gown.

          "Let's see what else we can awaken," she told him, as she lowered her mouth to his once again.  This time, the joining was harder as their lips met for the warm embrace.  Once again, Bond was more than up for the challenge; he was sore, but it had been his experience that there was nothing to make the injured body recover faster than a little increased blood flow.  And yet, there was still something reluctant in her caresses.

          "Where is Mark-Ange?" he asked when they finally separated.

          "He and Che Che went into Vizzavona to fetch some medical supplies to help repair your side.  They should be gone for another hour or so, we have time."

          With this, she stood and gently laid his head back to rest on the bed, where they had been residing.

          Bond attempted to keep her in view by propping himself up on his elbows, but his side screamed out at him.  His ribs were either very badly bruised or fractured.  He would have to make do with craning his neck up from the bed.

          Marie-Claude reached behind her head to grab the back collar of her dress, and then, in one simple motion, drew it above her head, and stood before Bond as God had certainly intended.

          "Am I beautiful to you?" she asked innocently.

          Bond smiled.  This was the voice of a girl from a small village, doubting her own beauty in broken French.  Wondering if she had something to offer this stranger from beyond her town, her country that would stand up against the women he'd encountered in his travels.  She did.

          "You are one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen," Bond told her.  An accepting smile came to her face.  "Any man who would tell you different would need a cane to tap in front of him."

          The dark colour of her skin lightened slightly as it approached her breasts, which were cream-coloured, compared to the chocolate of her arms and face.  Her body was full, yet athletic, and he longed to be along side of it, wrapped within it.  But with his appraisal, he could still see the tracts from her eyes where the tears had flowed a few minutes earlier.

          "All right, Marie," he began.  "What sort of game is this?"

          Her smile faltered for a moment, and then returned like an actress who'd been shocked out of the part she'd been playing.

          "It's just… I haven't been with anyone other than Che Che before," she replied.  There was truth to this, Bond suspected, but there was more as well.

          "Then why would you suddenly throw yourself upon a stranger whom you'd only met the night before?"

          This brought a frown, and Bond had inkling he was walking a line and might soon encounter the infamous Corsican feminine temper himself.

          "Throw myself?" she exclaimed, her nostrils flaring slightly.  "Do you think I am some common woman who offers herself up to every man who wanders by?  I try to give you the greatest complement a man can be offered by a woman, and you return it with insults?"

          Bond had to work to contain his smile; there was no reason to incite more emotion from this woman.

          "I do this out of love," she told him.

          "Love?" he replied.  "You hardly know me."

          She gave him a scoffing shrug.

          "Are all Englishmen so conceited?" she replied.  "Not love for you; although I know more about you than you think."

          Some of this was starting to make sense to Bond's sleep-ridden mind.

          "You're worried about Che Che?  I don't know if you've noticed, but the man seems quite capable of handling himself."

          Marie's eyes darted about the room and came to settle on the wooden chair next to the bed, where Bond's shoulder holster had been laid to rest, the Walther residing comfortably in its sheath.

          "I know more than I did then." she told him.  She seemed to be blissfully unaware she still stood naked before him.  She'd made no motion to recover her clothes, even though it was becoming more and more apparent little more than words would be exchanged between them this morning.

          Her naked flesh still had an effect on him, however.  It was almost hypnotic watching this woman sway and banter before him.  She was truly magnificent, and Marc-Ange's words about Corsican women came back to him from the night before.

          "And what exactly have you found out about me?"  Bond asked.  He didn't think Marc-Ange would be talking out of school about him, especially considering his current circumstances.

          "I've been told you are death to those around you.  I hear you kill men you do not like, and people you love end up dead as well.  I am going to marry Che Che, God be willing.  I have no qualms about letting you use me; you are handsome, but if it helps to keep Che Che alive, then there is no choice in the matter at all.  You may use me as you will, I welcome it, just let him live."

          With this, she came forward, and laid herself on her back next to him.

          This time, Bond couldn't help himself, he laughed out loud.

          "Would you get out of my bed?!" he told the shocked woman.  "Who told you such things, and what in God's name made you think you could exchange yourself for Che Che's safety?" 

          "I was told that is how you do things."

          "By whom?" he used a sterner voice this time.

          The girl remained quiet.

          Bond sighed.

          "For someone who up until a few moments ago was convinced I was going to bring death down upon everyone she knows, you aren't being very co-operative."

          "So, if I tell you, you will leave my Che Che alone?"

          Bond nodded.

          "It was the Irish woman, Feale.  She told me you are a hired killer for the British, and you use people, especially women," she paused.  "But if this is the case, then why don't you use me?"

          Bond looked down at the body next to him, a body crying out for his touch, his caress.

          "Believe me, Marie, I'd like to.  But sometimes doing what one wants, and doing what one knows to be right, are different things.  I'm afraid someone has misled you, and done both of us a disservice.  I'm going to rest some more, and I think you and your worries can do the same."

          Without much fanfare, she arose from the bed, got dressed, and gave him a kiss on the cheek before leaving.  

          "Thank you," she whispered to him.

          Once she'd gone, Bond thought about opportunities missed, but even more, he thought about Feale McCann.  Obviously, she'd recognised him as well, now it was just a matter of what kind of game she was going to play, and how did Donn fit into it all.

          His aching body continued to remind him it needed more time to recover.  James Bond laid his head back down and drifted away.

* * *

          His internal alarm clock brought him back to a murky waking world a few hours later.  As he stirred, the sound of rustling came to James Bond's semi-conscious mind.  Someone was once again in the room with him.

          He lay still, keeping his breathing measured, feigning sleep.   He was flat on his back with the light, cotton sheets pulled over his aching frame.  His torso had been bandaged to protect his ribs on the right side since his encounter with Marie; it was a professional job, too.  His mind swam with clouds, and there was no doubt he'd been drugged.  A musky breeze was blowing into the room, drying the sweat on his exposed arms.

          The scraping sounds claimed his attention once again, but this time a distinctive mewing followed the tussling noises.

          James Bond opened his eyes and watched from his bed as two kittens wrestled across the bare, wooden floor.  One was striped grey, the other calico, and they tumbled like the eight-week-old gymnasts they were.  Despite the flames from his ribs leaping every time he took a breath, Bond smiled at his own skittishness.

          He and the kittens were alone in his room.  His PPK was still in its shoulder holster, strung over the back of the chair.  The door to the room was ajar, which had probably been the kittens' handiwork.

            Given the moment of solitude, he played back the events of the night before and this morning.

          At some point, he was going to have to contact Tanner.  There was no escaping it.  Anytime an enemy operative was encountered unexpectedly in the field it was imperative the details and location be reported immediately.  Feale McCann, unlike Donn, was an active IRA terrorist.  Like Donn, however, she had a reputation as an assassin par excellence.   There was more to her file than that, as well, but he would have to refresh the details with Bill.  She was prettier than her file's pictures had given her credit for. 

          Slowly, he began to take a mental inventory of his body by flexing individual muscles. Besides for some aches, and his ribs, he seemed to have escaped the festivities the night before relatively intact.

          There were voices elsewhere in the house.  Bond could recognise the speakers, Marc-Ange and his new, personal wrestling partner, Che Che, but he couldn't make out the words.  They were, however, drawing closer.

          There were footsteps on the stairs, now, and Bond attempted to draw himself into a seated position.  The pain was enough to make him grimace, but it was bearable.

          Che Che's face appeared at the crack in the door.

          "Ah, good, you're awake," he said in a curt, professional manner, after which he and Marc-Ange entered the room.  

          "And have you come back now to finish me off?" Bond asked.

          The large man shook his head while wearing an embarrassed expression.  It struck Bond that even though he appeared an ugly brute, like his father, this was a man who did not take enjoyment in others' pain, and seemed honestly sorry for his actions.

          The giant rubbed the back of his neck.

          "I realise I owe you quite an apology, Mr. Bond.  There was no excuse for what happened last night.  But I am Corsican, and Marie...she drives me crazy some times."

          Watching such a huge man behaving so timid and awkward brought another smile to Bond's face.

          "I think a woman like that could drive any man to do crazy things, you're quite lucky.  And call me, James"

          "You are lucky as well, James," Che Che replied.  "It's hard to be sure without x-rays, but your ribs appear to be just bruised, and aside from a few other contusions, you're in amazingly good condition."

          Now, it was Bond's turn to look awkward.

          "The dressing...you're a doctor?" 

          "I told you I'd paid for his education," Marc-Ange interjected.  "Did you think I was sending him to shepherding school?"

          "Almost, a doctor," Che Che continued.  "I have completed six years at the Marseille Medical School, and am now in the tertiary cycle.  I have four more months of preceptorship before I am finished.  I work every other week with a physician out of Vizzavona."

          The giant paused to reach into his pocket and pulled out a small bottle, which he placed, on the nightstand next to the bed.

          "I apologise, even in town, our resources are limited.  The best that I can do for a pain killer is codeine."  Bond, whose world was still swaying from the initial dose, looked at the bottle of small white pills that he intended to never use.  It had been demonstrated to him well enough _Monte Paese was a place he needed to remain sharp if he was to survive._

          "Aside from that, you'll want to avoid any unnecessary movement or strenuous activity for several weeks." 

          Bond didn't mention that he'd almost had some unnecessary movement and strenuous activity with the man's fiancée a few hours earlier.

          Che Che continued with a more detailed breakdown of his injuries.  He followed along easily, having been hospitalised in so many countries, with such a variety of injuries, that he had gained near fluency with medical jargon around the globe.

          He was given the quick once over by Che Che, just to rule out the possibility of concussion, or any hidden injuries.  He winced at some of the prodding, but in the end the young physician seemed satisfied.

          "Is there a chance I might speak to my father-in-law privately?" Bond asked after the other man seemed satisfied with his condition.

          Che Che traded a sharp look with Marc-Ange, and the latter nodded.

          "Just make sure you get some bed rest, James," the young physician told him before exiting the room.  "You strike me as someone whose lifestyle doesn't lend itself toward laying still, but if there are any internal injuries, the last thing you need is a broken rib poking around at your innards when the nearest hospital is hours away."

          Bond nodded, without really listening to the man's warnings.  Sometimes doing nothing was the easiest way to end up dead.  He could live with pain, but he couldn't live with death.

          As the door closed, Bond noticed the kittens had suspended their wrestling and now lay in a patch of sunlight beneath the window, grooming each other.  He turned to Marc-Ange with a stern look.

          "This town, my town, needed a doctor.  He was the brightest of the children, and I owed it to his mother to make sure she didn't loose her son as well.  Che Che is too good for the kind of life our profession would have offered him."  His father-in-law knew perfectly well Bond's concerns weren't centred on the giant Corsican.

          "What the hell is she doing here, Marc-Ange?"

          Marc-Ange took a deep breath, and then pulled up the chair next to the bed, pausing to look at Bond's holster.

          "You create a problem for me, James.  I know, and respect, that whatever you hear and see has to be reported to you superiors back in London, but you ask me to compromise the security of my people and their cause."

          The old Corsican's face had lost some of its joviality, but not all.  Bond could tell he would tell him the story, given time and a few gentle prods.

          "Your people are not my enemies, nor Britain's," Bond said.  "But this woman is.  She has killed, or helped to kill, hundreds of _my countrymen, and undoubtedly, without your grace here, she would have killed me by now.  Unless you intend upon eliminating me yourself, or holding me captive, you know I'll put the answers together with, or without, your help."  _

          Here he paused.

          "But I would rather hear your side of things, than draw conclusions...or rely on the conclusions of others."

          The old Capu nodded.

          "There was a time in my life, James, where you would be dead already.  But age begets sentimentality.  You know me too well."  Marc-Ange smiled and shook his head.

          "Feale and I are... symbiotic, I believe is the word."

          Bond closed his eyes.  A part of him feared the next words.  Was it possible that the new romantic trappings of his father-in-law were aimed at this young girl?

          The Capu, ever perceptive, shook his head.

          "No, no, nothing like that.  Corsicans are at their core, peasant folk.  We have been beaten down by occupying forces for hundreds of years, so when more hardships are placed upon us, we shrug our shoulders and continue on, oblivious to what government is in control.  It has only been over the last thirty years or so we have begun to develop a more worldly view, thanks to the invasion of Western television.  Many peasants began to see the French government for what it was, a parasite milking our beautiful island and it's culture for tourism and taxes.  So, we wish to free ourselves, but the few political voices we have in France, are outvoted by the interests of the motherland."  He spat at this.

          "So, we are Corsicans, we know how to fight with knives, but armed revolt?    Now, along comes the IRA.  They approach men of power, such as myself, and they say things like, "We can provide you with weapons, we can provide your men with training, we can show you how to bring France to its knees.  All we ask in return is financing, and places to store our arms and our soldiers."  Your country has done a fine job of sealing the IRA off from the rest of the world, so they find their allies where they can; with us, with the African nations, with the Arabs, the peoples the rest of the world would like to forget."

          "And the barracks outside your compound?" Bond asked.

          "Are filled with FLNC men from all over Corsica, along with five men from the IRA, and Feale, herself, who is in charge of the entire encampment.  There are many, many more such operations located across Corsica.  She is quite a capable young woman."

          "What do you get from it all?"  This was the true crux of it all, for Bond.

          "Beyond helping Corsica?  The FLNC pays to have their compound here, they are on my land, and their supplies come through my lines, but I would do it for free.  This late in life, I have little need for money; it just seems to find its way to me on its own.  When I told you Feale and I are symbiotic, I meant it.  She was brought to me by my IRA contact; a woman named Colleen who has come to mean a great deal to me.  It seems that Feale is afraid for her life, afraid of your mutual acquaintance, Donn, who wants her breathing to cease with much haste. So she hides here, under my protection, and in return, she trains these brave men of Corsica to do the dirty jobs that need to be done."

          The speaking, and his upright position in his bed, had begun to make Bond's side begin to ache more diligently.  There were beads of perspiration on his forehead from the pain, and he knew he had to rest soon.

          "You know," his father-in-law continued.  "If you gave this young girl a chance, she might surprise you."

          Marc-Ange raised his eyebrows at the last, and the implication was not lost on Bond.

          "Her "surprising me" is exactly what I'm worried about," he replied.

          "Well, have no fear, I have arranged a meeting between you two this evening,  you can hear her story first hand, for it is one a man cannot properly convey.  If, afterwards, you are not content, then we shall make other plans.  Maybe, I should have a bottle of champagne chilled, no?"

          "No," Bond said.  "This meeting, it would be just the two of us?  None of her playmates?"

          "Now, that's more like the James that I know!"

          "You know perfectly well what I mean."

          "Yes," Marc-Ange assured him, feigning disappointment.  "Just the two of you, and thanks to your present condition, it would be here in your room.  They'll be running the men through their field exercises until dusk, and then she'll be here."

          The two men spoke a little longer, during which time Bond attempted to find out more about this "arrangement" with the IRA, and about his father-in-law's new "friend", Colleen.  But the old man just assured him that he would be able to form his own opinions, and answer his own questions in a very short time, for she would be arriving later in the evening as well.

          "Now, if you're done with me," Marc-Ange said.  "It is obvious, even to these old eyes, you need to rest that body of yours.  I'll have a light meal brought up when you awaken."

          Bond welcomed the opportunity to recuperate a little more, but there was one more duty to perform.

          "Marc-Ange," he asked.  "You know I have to report in, is there a phone I can use?"

          The older man frowned, and then wagged a finger at Bond.

          "You are in _Monte Paese, and therefore, under my protection, but the IRA people here also share that umbrella with you.  I've little doubt your country would love to have Miss McCann lying in a casket, and I know you are one of their greatest morticians.  I need to have your word you will not shed blood at __Monte Paese, with the understanding, that if you do, my hospitalities will no longer be extended to you, and I will no longer be able to look upon you as family."_

          _In short, Bond thought to himself.  __I'll be dead.  _

          It brought the uncomfortable situation to life again.  Marc-Ange was taking a chance having him here, and he wanted to repay that trust by proving himself worthy of it, but if Tanner, or M, gave him a direct order, there was no way about shirking his duty.  He had lied for his country many times, sometimes to those he loved, sometimes to himself, but ultimately, the only one he was always truthful to was the old man in Regent's Park.

          "I can promise I will only defend myself.  These people you're in bed with," Bond paused to register the sour look on Marc-Ange's face, his own implication not lost, "have proven themselves less than trustworthy in my past.  And I will not lay down for them, so they can slit my throat more easily."

          Marc-Ange lifted his shoulders, and then let them drop.

          "Funny," he remarked.  "She said the same thing."

          "But as it is, I could ask no more." He unclipped a cell phone from his waist, and tossed it to Bond, who caught it deftly, but not without a wince.  "Until later, James." He said with a waive of his hand as he made for the door.  Before closing it, he made a _cluck, cluck sound and the two kittens came scurrying after him._

          Bond rolled painfully to the edge of the bed where his suitcase was tucked underneath.  Checking to make sure his security fail-safes were still intact, he opened the case, and from a side compartment extracted a scrambler that Q branch had developed for simple, dedicated, two-way communications.  It was just a basic mouthpiece, a few computer boards, and a rubber flange that could extend over the mouthpiece of any standard or cell phone.  Those at the office had dubbed it "The Condom," much to the chagrin of the armourer.  Bond hadn't brought a phone along with him, as there was a chance his signal could have been traced, and his position triangulated, but this device allowed him universal protection.  He also removed a "bugger" from the same pouch, set the range for fifteen metres, and flipped it on.  If there were a listening device transmitting within range, the bugger would emit an audible squeal that would increase in volume as one approached the unwanted ear.

          Somewhat surprisingly, his room was clear.

          Bond leaned back on the bed, and rolled the device over Marc-Ange's cell phone, while staring at the ceiling.  He dialled the number Moneypenny had given him before leaving on his "vacation".  It was a direct line to Bill Tanner, M's Chief of Staff.

          The phone rang once, and Bond was relieved to hear a friendly voice from the world of sanity.

          "Put on your condom, Bill," he said into the device.

          He knew that on the other end, Tanner had just received an earful of static only the sister unit of his own could match and decode.  There was a pause of a few moments, during Bond could picture his friend taking out his own scrambler and affixing it to his phone.  There was a click as the other man came on line.

          "So, James, how is _Monte Paese?"_

          Taken aback, Bond stumbled.

          "How did you know?"

          "In a moment.  You've taken your time checking in, and there's quite a bit of ground to cover.  First, your report,"

          Had his cover been blown so easily, and by his own people?

          "The most pressing thing is I've encountered a cell of IRA terrorists, that have been training FLNC troops.  I'm not sure how much it bears on my current situation, but it seems like one hell of a coincidence.  Also, the group is being directed by an old friend of ours."

          "Feale McCann," Tanner finished for him, flummoxing Bond even further.

          "Bill, would you mind telling me what the hell is going on here?"

          Tanner laughed at this, which came across rather cold on Bond's end.

          "We've had a large influx of information from an outside source, James.  And so far, most of it seems to be rather accurate.  It would appear we are not the only ones looking for Donn, and I'm afraid this has become a case of very strange bedfellows, indeed."

          Things we're becoming a bit clearer for Bond.

          "I'll tell you what, Bill.  Why don't you report, and then I'll fill in, since you seem to know so much?"

          "Very well then, find a seat, James.  This is some wild stuff."

          Bond gathered that his current position would suffice.

          "Go ahead."

          "Starting about three days ago, the IRA lost at least eighteen mole operatives on three continents.  Needless to say, they were a little put out.  Apparently, all of them could be traced back through one point of origin, a recruitment centre they all shared in Dublin called Saint Peter's Youth Hostel, and a man named Tom Barry who ran it.  Would you like to take a crack at whom Barry's top pupil was?"

          "Peter O'Sullivan," Bond answered with a sigh.

          "Quite right.  Mr. Barry had been in charge of recruiting, and then positioning these boys and girls, and I do not use those terms lightly, the oldest one was 21, James, and the youngest, 15.  Now, when we were provided with a list of the dead, and their locations, we noticed something rather peculiar.  They were all located within easy distance of friends and professional acquaintances, of one of our agents.  It seems that a web was cast for you, James, and Donn only had to wait for you to happen by, as you did in Texas."

          "How did he know?"

          "The think tank has been working on that one, but it would appear some of your files had definitely been compromised.  They even had someone in Japan on Mr. Tanaka. "It seems a few days ago, many of these operatives were given the others as targets, and then one party eliminated all of the remainders.  Donn apparently cleaned up his network quite well."

          "And what about Barry," Bond asked.  It looked to him like Tanner's connection had provided them with some in depth IRA intelligence and he wondered who the hell they were working with.

          "I'm getting there.  We were provided with Donn's home address, so to speak, he was living on one of the Blasketts, in a rebuilt monastery.  008 led an SIS team, with Irish co-operation, of coarse, to raid the place.  Scraggly little island, they had to drop in by helicopter.  The building was a virtual armoury, but there were no traps or safeguards in place, the door wasn't even locked.  Inside, they found Tom Barry's body with the back of its head blown out.  Suicide, or forced suicide, by appearance.  From all reports this guy was like a father to Donn, it just makes you wonder how cracked this fellow is.  He'd flown the proverbial coop already, and I think it is safe to assume, that if he's closed his network down, he probably knows your present location."

          "So there's most likely a mole here as well."

          "Either that, or Donn still has some friends within the IRA who are providing him with information.  Maybe both.  The thing is, you're going to have to be careful until we can get a team in there to extract you.  008 is already in route."

          This was not what he wanted to hear.  Bond wanted to end this thing, he didn't want to be a moving target, waiting God knows how long to be put back on active service, and remaining a living bull's-eye until then.

          "Bill, this is personal for Donn.  Chances are he's going to come at me face to face, wouldn't it be better for me to remain here to flush him out into the open?"

          "No doing, James."  There wasn't much give in the chief of staff's voice.  "_Chances are isn't good enough.  And let's not forget, this man would like nothing more than to make you suffer; he might decide to kill Draco, or anyone else he perceives as being close to you.  In addition, there's a good chance McCann would be a target of his as well, and I don't think that would be wise at this time."_

          Bond finally couldn't hold back any longer.

          "Would you mind sharing your little secret with me, Bill?  How you came about all this information, how could you know Donn wants Feale dead, and why in God's name should we care?  In all honesty, I was expecting you to tell me to take her out myself."  He was being careless, he knew.  Just because there weren't bugs to be detected in his room didn't mean his conversation was private.

          "Has it occurred to you, James, she could have just as easily killed you?  Especially given your current condition."

          Now, things had gone too far, and he was about to tell Tanner as much, when the other man struck first.

          "Strange bedfellows, James.  The IRA hasn't taken kindly to what it feels to be a betrayal from within.  Fifteen of their people are dead, not counting Barry.  They spent a lot of time and money training these moles.  They obviously knew about your…our situation with the man, and in the new found spirit of co-operation, and all that other blah blah, they've decided to help us track down their rogue soldier.  This is all on the sly, of coarse, and only a few of the high ups know about it on either side.  The thought is, if they kill Donn themselves, they will create a lot of animosity within their organisation; regardless of the circumstances, the man is almost a mythic figure within the Sein Fenn, and they already have enough splinter groups to deal with.  But if we kill him, then he becomes a martyr, as well as a myth, a great soldier fallen in battle."

          Bond had to breathe deep.  It was hard enough to work with the Russians on occasion, now the IRA?  How many friends had he lost to these bastards over the years?

          "Feale McCann and her men have already been contacted by her IRA liaison, and they have been informed to help you any way possible.  If her liaison is to be believed, the girl hates Donn more than the British anyway.  I guess they used to be quite the item."

          Now, there was a surprise to Bond.

          "Imagine the children," he muttered, which was followed by an awkward silence from Tanner's end.  Bond felt as if he'd unintentionally stepped into something nasty.  He attempted to recover.  "This liaison's name wouldn't happen to be "Colleen," would it?"

          Tanner clucked on the other end of the line.

          "Now it's my turn to be surprised.  Why, yes.  Now that you mention it, her name is Colleen Moran.  I met her just yesterday, along with some of the hand picked men she's going to be travelling with.  Quite an impressive lady, and very attractive."

          "Apparently, my father-in-law would agree."

          "That lucky, old bastard," Tanner quipped.  "I hope I can do half as well when I'm his age.  Anyway, she and her men should be…"

          "Arriving tonight?" Bond finished.

          "Right.  They'll be joining McCann's people to provide extra protection for you until 008 arrives sometime tomorrow.  If you do encounter Donn, then do what you must.  But I have it directly from M that you are to lay low.  Is that clear, James?"

          "Clear enough," he answered.

          Tanner asked if there was anything else, and then he signed off, giving Bond the contact number for their next communication.

          Bond put the phone down on his bedside table, checked the position of the Walther, and then lay back down on the pillow.  His side ached from all the talking, and he could feel his consciousness waning.  He felt about as safe as a hen could, when being minding by foxes.

          James Bond let himself drift off, finding that picturing Feale McCann's face did lend him comfort of a kind.

          He was awake again, this time without the lethargic fog of codeine to dull him.  The light from the window was dim; evening had fallen, and his stomach was reminding him he'd not eaten since the night before.  His room was filled with shadows, drawn away from the window like cloaked contour lines.

          For a few moments, he listened to the sounds of the house, catching his own measured breathing and a little street noise.  He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and gained his feet.

          The pain was still tearing at him, but by now he'd grown accustomed to it.  The light in the bathroom was blinding at first, but to see himself in the mirror was even harder on his eyes.

          There was a cropping of stubble about his face, it had been several days since he shaved last and the beginnings of a beard were in full bloom.  His eyes were red and crusted, and his face was covered with dirt and a few minor scratches from his tussle the night before.

          He filled the sink with cold water, and then immersed his head beneath it.  The shock was welcome, and when he pulled his head out and slicked his soaking hair back from his face, he was beginning to feel alive again.  He reached into the shower and let the hot water run so it would be near scalding when it hit his skin.

          Always bound by his habits, he turned the water to the coolest setting half way through the shower, and enjoyed welcomed the shock to his system.  There was a rustic smell and taste to the water, and Bond felt a brief longing to be back in London.  Besides for the brief stopover after Houston, he'd had precious little time to fall back into his home routine.  It was a continuous battle within him; he craved the assignments that challenged him the most, but at the same time, he needed the stability of his habits.  What he would have given for a descent three-minute egg, or a chance to explore the countryside in his Aston Martin.

          As he emerged from the shower, his skin beet red from the tempering abuse, but his mind ever sharper, he heard a knock upon his room door.

          "Just a moment," he called from the bathroom, quickly wrapping a towel about his waist.

          There was no peephole, so he had to risk cracking the door.  There on the other side, was Marc-Ange's little ball of hate, staring back at him with a pair of clear, green eyes that required no make-up to make him check his breath.

Feale McCann stood there bearing a tray laden with a bowl of soup, a crusty baguette, and a bottle of wine.

          "Your host has decided I should deliver your dinner this evening," she informed him though the crack in a less-than-warm tone of voice.

          Backing away from the door, he adjusted his falling towel.

          "It will be just a moment, I've just stepped out of the bath," he told her.

          Without hesitation, she nudged the door open the remainder of the way and stepped into the room.

          "For God's sake, why are British men such women?" she asked, staring boldly at him.  I live in a barracks with twenty-eight men, do you think you have something I haven't seen before, Mr. James Bond?"

          He couldn't help but smile, even if she was a cold-hearted, murdering bitch.

          "I've been around my fair share of half-naked women myself, but I still haven't let it affect my manners," he shot back.

          Feale frowned at this, looking around for a place to set down her tray.  "So much the gentleman, are you, that you couldn't even help me with this thing."

          Like most men, Bond found the Irish lilt attractive in a woman's voice, even when it was tinged with such poorly hidden hatred.  He'd known an American agent with the CIA who'd requested to be transferred to the IRA terrorist response team for the sole reason that the female terrorists were much more appealing than their counterparts about the globe.

          As Feale cleared a space on his bedside table for the food, Bond had to concur with his colleague's assessment.  She was compact, standing no more than 5'6", but her frame was tight and muscular beneath the fatigues she wore.  Her breasts, although not large, were perfectly formed and rode high on her frame.  He normally didn't find shorthaired women attractive, but Feale's hair hung freely about her face, providing a loose, copper frame for her beauty.

          She turned quick enough to catch part of his appraisal, which ticked her frown down yet another notch.  "Don't be getting any ideas, Bond.  I'd sooner kill you than kiss you, but unfortunately, those above me see things a little differently at the moment.  Still, your reputation precedes you, and if you try your wiles on me…let's just say I've been told to keep you alive, not necessarily intact."  She glanced at his holster strung over his chair.  "A Walther PPK?  So, you carry a woman's gun as well?"

          Bond was now to the point of ignoring her jibes.

          "They say you're supposed to be resting, and I'm not to get you all riled up, so why don't you get back on that bed?" she told him.

          Biting back a few more witty remarks, Bond decided to drop all pretences.

          "Well, since modesty isn't your strong point," he turned from her, leaving her at his back for the first time she'd entered the room, and removed his towel, which he absently tossed onto the bed.  He grabbed a pair of trousers from the suitcase next to the bed, and pulled them on.  When he turned back to her, it was his turn to find himself being assessed.

          _At least there will be no more of those "woman" comments, he thought to himself, sitting on the bed with his back straight against the backboard.  He winced a little while trying to gain a more comfortable position, and with this, he swore he could see Feale's frown waiver for a moment._

          "The kick may have been unnecessary," she said as she flipped the chair Marc-Ange had been sitting in around, his holster and weapon jingling about as she did so.  She kept the back of the seat facing him, straddling the chair so it was a wall between them.  "But you must realise, most of my adult life, I've wanted you dead, and once this episode is over with, I'll still want you dead."

          This statement was delivered in such a matter of fact fashion that even Bond was surprised at its coldness.  He may have to kill people as part of his job, but he never took it lightly, and weighed each victim on his conscious.  This woman made it sound as if killing were akin to washing dishes, or taking out garbage to the curb side.  And there was something else there as well.

          "You say "me"?" he began to ask.  "Do you mean me in particular, or just all British soldiers?"

          She hesitated, directing those amazing green eyes out the window where night reigned.  For a moment, she was gone, Bond saw, probably revisiting something in her past from the forlorn look which worked itself upon her.  When her gaze returned, she placed it on the towel he'd discarded on the bed.

"Come on," she prodded him, hefting the linen.  "Your back is still wet."

Not quite understanding the mixed signals he was receiving from this woman, Bond obediently turned, grimacing as he did so.  The towel remained between her hands and his back and shoulders, but the thought of contact being so close was not lost upon him, neither was the fact that she did not rush through her work.

"I'm not ignoring your question, but there is a story to it, and it isn't one which I enjoy telling.  But I know at some point we're going to have to talk about…about him," she began.

Discarding the towel, she reached for the bowl of soup, and a spoon.

"They call this _Suppa di pesce," she told him.  "It reminds me a bit of the fish soup they served on Fridays where I grew up back in Dublin.  Except there aren't any potatoes, and it's spicier."_

She ladled the spoon in the broth, and offered it up to him.  Reminded of his hunger, he gladly took the soup, and his palate thanked him for the delight of it.  Watching him snatch at the offering, she finally graced him with a smile, and continued to feed him the soup as well as words.

"I assume you've spoken to your superiors?" she asked, receiving a nod in return.  "Then, I'm sure Colleen has shared some of my past with your people."

"They just told me you and Donn were lovers," he watched her reaction to this, and was rewarded with a visible flinch of disgust.  "And that you wanted him dead, and the feeling was mutual."

She paused thoughtfully, before dishing out another bite of soup.

"Fair enough.  There's nothing I'm going to tell you your government does not already know, so you can turn off your instincts for a few minutes.  Peter and I both grew up together at a youth hostel in Ireland run by a wonderful man and woman who raised us as brother and sister, as if we were their own children.  I was abandoned by my mother in a church, I don't really remember her at all now, just fleeting images really.  For all intents, the people who raised Donn and I were our true parents."

_She's not mentioning names to protect them.  Doesn't she know Tom Barry is dead? was all Bond could think to himself.  __Why wouldn't they tell her?  Certainly SIS had informed the IRA regarding the results of their raid._

_"We were trained to be soldiers at a very early age.  At first, it was necessary so we could defend ourselves."  Another long pause, another distracted glance out the window.  "And later so we could help to unify Ireland.  We both excelled, and since our dedication was unquestioned, when we became teenagers, we began to take on very serious roles in the People's Army."_

"Terrorists," Bond said.

"Assassins," she corrected.  "Not much different from yourself."

Bond wanted to illuminate for her the differences between killing menaces to society and innocent civilians, but he did not wish to interrupt her, and saw little chance of correcting a lifetime of brain washing and self-justification.

"Our "parents" at the hostel we're good people, But Peter and I were unique in our upbringing, and there was no one who could relate to what we felt except one another, it was natural for us to become lovers.  By our late teens, we no longer lived at the hostel.  We shuffled from city to city around Europe, living in safe houses and occasionally apartments for short periods of time.   We existed like that for years, loving each other, helping each other, both very proficient at what we did.  It never bothered me when Peter's fame within the cause began to grow.  He had taken his new name by then, knowing the IRA was using him as a figure of national pride as well as a tool of fear with the British, he didn't want to endanger the two of us.  It may be hard for you to understand, but we were happy.  If it wasn't for our breaking apart, there is a strong chance you would have never heard of Feale McCann or Peter Sullivan, just the legend of Donn would have lived on."

Bond felt sad for this woman, who saw such a murderous way of life as bliss.  "So what happened?" he asked.  She had abandoned the soup by now, and was becoming fidgety in her chair, obviously uncomfortable with what she was about to say.

"About six years ago, I became pregnant.  We were stationed in Syria at the time, running a training operation much like this.  I guess there was a part of me that thought a baby was just a natural evolution of what we had between us.  I knew it would mean being taken out of service, at least for a while, but when you grow up without a normal family, there is something important about having a family of your own.  Of doing things better, being the kind of parent you wish you could have had.  Peter and I had so much love for eachother; there would have been more than enough to share.  I was raised Catholic, every Sunday we attended mass at the Parish that supported the hostel; it is not a joke or a cliché, to say we take families seriously, it stands at the heart of the Irish cause."

"I take it Donn wasn't as enamoured of the idea, as you were," Bond prodded her along.

"When I told him, something happened, something snapped inside of him.  The warning signs had always been there, I guess I just ignored them.  Even when we were children, he would never play house with me.  He never spoke of children, shied away from the topic when I brought it up.  He never even talked about the future between us.  He didn't talk about the future at all.  I guess he may not have felt like he had one.  After a few days of not talking to me, he told me I would have to get an abortion."

James Bond watched her delicate face as she spoke.  When she came to the last, she paused.  He waited for the flood gates to open, for the inevitable crying to break her story down, and make her tale unintelligible.  But although ripples of emotion made the muscles beneath her amazing features twitch and quiver, her voice hardly wavered at all.  Duly impressed, he wondered if forced to recall events such as this from his own life, if he could have contained himself any better.

"He told me in bed, there in the desert, out in the middle of nothing.  The thought went against everything I believed in, everything I thought _we believed in.  I told him as much, I told him all the death was getting to him, making him immune to the difference between killing someone in war, killing for a cause, and murdering an innocent life we had created together.  I told him I was going to leave him, go back to Ireland, the hostel, and raise the child by myself if I had to."_

"There were a lot of reactions I might have anticipated, but what happened wasn't one of them.  He cried, the only time I ever saw him that way.  He curled up against me in a ball, and he sobbed like a babe.  He said I was wrong about the killing having callused him, he told me the damage had been done long before we'd even met, when he was just a child.  I guess I thought since I couldn't remember my time before the hostel, his earlier life was lost to him as well.  He told me about his childhood, about his mother and father, and then he told me about you."

Bond shifted his position on the bed, as a look of hatred directed at him burned from her.  Any romantic thoughts he'd harboured toward this woman were dashed at that moment, or at least for that moment.

"Peter said he couldn't afford to have a family, he couldn't let them be used against him.  He said once his mother passed away, I didn't even know his mother was still alive, he had never even mentioned her until then, once she passed away, he would be untouchable.  That they would never be able to use the ones he loved against him, the way you'd done against his father."

So that was it, Bond realised.  In Feale's world, he was at fault.  Rather than having laid the blame on the man she loved, it was easier to project part of that evil upon someone she hadn't known at all.  As with so many other tragic things that had befallen Ireland over the years, it was just easier to blame the English.  He ignored the voice in the back of his own mind telling him maybe he was one attempting to shed responsibility as well.

"So I asked him what about us?  Wasn't he frightened about them using me against him?  And without even pausing to blink, he tells me I am a soldier like him, and I had accepted the responsibility of my own death the moment I had signed onto the cause.  I shoved his foetal-balled self off the bed and screamed at him how could he speak of my death so lightly, even contemplate the death of our child.  I could hear the other men in the camp beginning to stir in the tents around us.  There were shouts for quiet, and even a few who wanted to know what the hell was going on.  He shouted back at them, and the way they shut up you would have thought God himself had spoken."

"He was enraged.  He walked around the bed and grabbed me by my hair, yanking my head about to face him.  He waived a finger in my face with his free hand.  This man that I had loved, that I had wanted to spend my life with, screamed at me, told me neither me, nor a baby, were going to get in the way of the revenge he'd pledged his life to."

"More out of instinctive training, than anything else, I flat handed him to the face, knocked him back to the ground.  I told him if he ever laid part of his body on me again, he'd lose that part, and I was going to leave when the supply helicopter arrived the next day.  I was going to go back to our home in Ireland, Tech Duinn, clear out my things, and he would never have to worry about seeing our child or me again.  So, like the excited fool I was, I turned my back on him to leave."

She reached over and uncorked the bottle of wine on the tray.  Foregoing a glass, she took a long draught from the bottle.  "You shouldn't be drinking this stuff anyway, if you're on meds," she told Bond.  He would have corrected her, told her he wasn't going to touch the codeine next to his bed, but there was no way he was going to bring a pause to her story.

"He hit me from behind at the base of my skull, put me out cold.  I'd like to think he did it carefully, that he didn't want to endanger my life, but honestly, I doubt it.   When I awoke, it was morning and my whole world had become pain and blood.  He had strapped me down on our bed, tying my wrists and ankles to the bedposts.  I was naked, and in terrible pain from the waist down.  My mouth had been gagged so my screams would go unheard.  I was bound tight, so I couldn't even see what the monster had done, but I could feel it; I could feel the blood beneath my lower body, where it had dried to the bed, caking the sheets to my bare skin, and the wetness of what still pumped forth from me.  The doctors determined he'd used a coat hanger and a combat knife to perform his makeshift abortion, nearly killing me in the process as well."

Her mind was on autopilot now, Bond observed.  She stared out the window with an unwavering gaze, and any emotion that might have escaped was locked deep inside her mind, her words falling out of her mouth like lifeless things.

          "He'd left a note, telling me he was leaving me and the IRA.  He would ship my things to the hostel.  He made it quite clear if I attempted to see him he would kill me.  I found out later, he'd also contacted the Sein Fenn, and told them he was still dedicated to the cause, and would assist whenever called upon, but he would contract openly in order to start building a personal estate.  After attempting to leave, teamed with what he'd done to me, I'd assumed he would be dead within days.  But they quickly silenced me, and anyone who was aware of what had happened.  His acts, especially the murder of our child, would not set well with Irish Catholics, and they needed their poster boy, and his legacy, to remain unscathed.  Over the next few months, I recovered in a hospital in Dublin dealing with the physical rehabilitation, and the medical reality I would never be able to have children after my injuries, while he began building his reputation, and his fortune.  I couldn't tell anyone, not even the people who'd raised me, what had really happened.  They just assumed we'd had a falling out after I'd "miscarried"."

          "But you told Marc-Ange," Bond said.  "And now you're telling me."

          She nodded.

          "Things changed.  About two years ago, I received word from him.  Have no doubt, I hated him then, and still wanted him dead, but there was a part of me that wanted an explanation, maybe even an apology.  I'd spend a decade of my life with the man, and even if he'd gone insane to some degree, it's hard to give up on people.  This was during his "missing years".  The IRA had kept tabs on him, even when he ceased being an assassin.  The man who raised me told me Peter had holed himself up at Tech Duinn, and hadn't even been seen for years.  If it wasn't for the occasional letter, my "father" would have assumed he was dead.  Now, an envelope arrived for me at my "parent's" from him.  He said his real mother had died, and that even though I must hate him for what he'd done, he needed me to be there with him at the funeral.  He said that he still loved me."

          "And you went?" Bond asked.

          She nodded.  "God help me, yes, I believed him.  The service was in Belfast, at graveside in some small parish yard.  There were only a few people there along with the priest.  I was shocked when I saw Peter.  He'd lost so much weight, and his face was hollow.  We didn't really say much at all, I just stood next to him during the service, even holding his hand at points, giving him reassuring squeezes now and then.  He looked over at me at one point and tried to smile, but it was obvious he'd gone dead inside.  After the service, he asked if we could go for a walk.  At first, it was perfectly normal; he started telling me what he could remember of his mother, and how he never felt an ounce of anger at having been essentially abandoned.  

          "She did the best she could, given the circumstances," he told me, tombstones all around us.  Then he said something along the lines of, "I could have never brought myself to hate her, to hurt her."  And I start to get this feeling I hadn't been asked to be there to comfort him at all.  Now, with his mother dead, I was one of his last emotional ties, and you think I would have known by then he saw those ties as weaknesses."

          "He came at me with a knife, but this time I was conscious and could defend myself.  His mind wasn't really in the game.  I disarmed him with a simple fade move, and then put him down with an elbow.  Someone hidden amongst the tombstones began shooting at me, before I could finish the job on Peter, or Donn, or whatever the hell he'd become.  I ran, dodging through the markers, trying to make myself as poor of target as I could.  When I finally emerged from the graveyard, "father" was waiting there for me with his car.  He said he hadn't trusted Peter, and that now the IRA would have to do something to protect me.  He was right.  They were still unwilling to do anything about their "hero", but they were willing to secretly move me to this training facility.  There are a hundred like it across three continents, and even if Donn could find me, they knew Marc-Ange and his people well enough to know I'd be protected."

          Bond nodded.  Corsicans took the concept of guests seriously.

          "Your father-in-law is a good man.  He's kept me safe over these last few years, allowed me to be part of his family here.  When he asked me why the IRA was so hush-hush about keeping me here, I felt I owed it to him to tell him the truth.  He thanked me for the trust I showed in him, and when he told me you were coming, and why, he asked me to extend the same trust to you.  I didn't tell him I knew your name quite well, and I guarantee you, if not for Marc-Ange you would have had my knife in your stomach instead of my foot."

          She stood up, with this, just as the sounds of an approaching vehicle, married with a series of honks, droned up through the open window.

          "So you blame me?" he asked as she recovered the tray and the now cold bowl of soup, preparing to make for the door.

          "You're a British agent, I'd kill you for that alone.  But if not for you, Peter's mind would still be whole, and my baby might be alive.  Where the blame lies doesn't really matter, does it?"  And then, before he could reply.  "That will be Colleen.  So if you can drag your sorry arse out of bed for a few moments, you can come meet the new love of your father-in-law's life."


	8. Common Ground

**Chapter Nine: Common Ground**  
  


Donn wanted to arrive at Monte Paese as soon as he could, but there was still some unfinished business to attend to along the way.

Since going international, Donn had learned to depend upon the idiosyncrasies of different cultures to aid him in his business dealings. He knew he could count on the punctuality of the Germans and Americans, as he had in Oklahoma, and also knew he could depend upon the British to stick with their tried and true methods of doing things.

When the British came to Corsica, they came through Bastia, either flying in to the modest airport south of the city, or by bringing the ferry in from Nice. Bill Travers, better known as 008 within M16, would take the latter route with his SIS team avoiding any problems with concealing their weapons.

In Nice, Donn had rented a Honda Accord using one of his many fabricated credit accounts. It had not taken long to pry out the door panels and pack the C-4 and ball bearings. Travers, using his William Brown alias, had booked on the 2:30 p.m. ferry. Through a light rain, as he watched with binoculars as the British team bordered the ferry, Donn had one of his team members, Julian, run the car onto the boat, and into the lower deck, where the vehicles were stored.

They had to wait for nearly an hour in the rain, which began to steadily beat down harder. Julian returned, and the five of them huddled there on the docks, smelling the oil and guts of several centuries' worth of fish that came back to olficious life in the downpour.

Finally, the ferry's motors began to hum louder, and the Corsican sailors undid her lines, shouting back and forth in their heavily accented French. Travers was standing on the observation deck of the boat as it pulled away from the shore.

Oddly enough, the Brit was staring back at the French shoreline, staring directly back at them.

Knowing the chances of being identified at this distance were almost nil, Donn still couldn't resist the opportunity. Holding the binoculars in place with his left hand, he waved at the departing figure with his right.

Now, several hundred meters out to sea, 008 instinctively returned the wave, and then cocked his head oddly at the tiny figures of Donn and his cohorts.

Had to give it to those "00's, Donn thought to himself. They have good eyes.

Travers ran from the observation deck of the ferry; whether he was trying to get to his own team, or whether he was trying to get to the ship's cabin, Donn wasn't sure. With the naked eye, the boat was little more than a dot on the sea, now.

"A little cheeky, don't you think?" Julian commented, as he blew into his cupped hands.

"So, I lose a few style points," Donn replied as he hit the speed dial on the cell phone he'd bought special for the occasion.

The "dot" on the horizon, now flared to red and yellow glowing life. It took a few seconds for the sound of the blast to reach them, but when it did, the shouts of alarm went up along the shoreline. They all knew it would be foolish to linger, they had a plane to catch to Marseilles to make their own, much more uneventful, crossing to the island. Donn waited just long enough to raise the glasses to his eyes once more; the ferry was already gone, replaced by a sea of floating debris. The explosion itself had doomed the ship, and the ball bearings would take care of the passengers, breaking through the wood interiors of the ferry like mortar fragments through flesh. If anyone were to survive, one thing was certain, they wouldn't be seeing the outside of a hospital for quite some time.

* * *  
  


A few hours later, Bond slowly trudged down his father-in-law's stairs, trying to hold the pain in, not wanting to demonstrate too much weakness in front of McCann. He watched her descend before him, moving cat-like down the stairway.  There was no way of knowing if he could trust her completely, but there was little doubt he would like to.

The front door was already open, and there were sounds of commotion coming from the street. The Hummer was once again out front, but this time instead of one passenger, Toussaint had brought a good-sized group with him. The dirt street was muddied from the light, but steady rain.

Marc-Ange was at the side of the Hummer, helping a young woman from the vehicle. Age had not stolen the bear-like man's upper body strength, Bond noted, as Draco lifted the woman easily with his huge hands anchored about her waist. In return, she happily laced her arms about his neck and kissed him passionately on the mouth.

James Bond stole a glance at Feale, who was watching the couple herself, and was surprised to find a poorly hidden look of disgust on her face. Was she disproving of the age difference, he wondered, or was there something else? Could it be she had feelings for his father-in-law, as well?

"James, James," Marc-Ange was beckoning him over. "Come and meet the enemy."

Bond stepped forward, and was greeted by a quirky smile from the woman with the long, black hair.

"Colleen Moran, I'd like to introduce you to my son-in-law, James," Marc-Ange said. "James, this woman is the reason for the extra verve you've noticed in my steps the last few days."

"So this is the famous James Bond?" she said. "You've caused us quite a bit of trouble over the years."

She reached an arm out to him and, embraced him about the neck, giving him a small kiss next to his ear in the Continental fashion. He caught a light scent of Innisfree, with its distinctive lavender-peach scent.

"You and your people haven't exactly been a picnic in the park either," he responded.

She looked him up and down, not in a sexual fashion, he sensed, but in a combative assessment. Bond was also filing his own mental findings regarding the woman before him.

Unlike Feale with her feline, feminine athleticism, this woman was tall, nearly six feet, and looked amazingly strong. She towered over Marc-Ange, and had a sea of beautiful black hair pouring over her shoulders and cascading half way down her back. Her pronounced musculature made her figure appear a little boyish, although she was trim, and Bond, if pressured, would have put her weight at about nine and a half stone. Quite well endowed, her breasts seemed to have that too perfect, too buoyant look which often signalled enhancement surgery, and an underlying vanity. Her voice had a throaty quality to it, which, when tied with the Irish lilt, was almost unbearably intoxicating. This was certainly a woman who would intimidate most men. If she was trained properly, as he was sure she would be, Colleen could make an extremely formidable opponent. He wondered how Marc-Ange could handle such a woman at such an advanced age, and his already considerable opinion of his father-in-law was raised another notch.

There were four men who now emerged from the Hummer, each of whom immediately lined up behind Colleen in traditional, "at ease" postures, legs shoulder-length apart, hands clasped behind back.

"Are these the rest of my bodyguards?" Bond inquired, raising a universal frown from the men who obviously shared Feale's feelings toward protecting the life of an English agent.

"That they are, Mr. Bond," Colleen replied. "This is Connolly, Ryan, Troy, and Mullet." 007 shook each of their hands as the men were introduced. They were a hard looking lot, and obviously professional. Once announced, they fell back and began to unload their equipment from the vehicle.

"At least one of us will be assigned to you at all times. When not at your side, the men will be stationed at the barracks, while, I believe, I'll be staying at the main house."

She gave Marc-Ange a sideways glance and smile.

"But, of coarse," the older man gratefully accepted. "I would have it no other way."

Bond presumed there would be little guesswork involved with the sleeping arrangements.

"Feale, my dear girl," Colleen suddenly chimed out, as if McCann hadn't been there the entire time. "It's wonderful to see you in such good health."

Bond watched as the two women embraced in greeting, Feale keeping her eyes closed while Colleen planted a kiss on her cheek, much as she had Bond's. As they parted, James found himself rethinking his earlier ideas regarding Feale being jealous of Colleen's relationship with Marc-Ange. There were hugs of friendship and then there were hugs of passion; the awkward display he'd just witnessed appeared to be somewhere in between. Was there a chance that Feale might be jealous of Marc-Ange's relationship with Colleen? Apart from the mixed signals he'd received from her earlier in the evening, the woman had very good reasons to turn away from men. Between his somewhat groggy state, and all the personal dynamics going on between the people before him, Bond knew he would need some time to sort out what exactly was going on, and whom he could trust.

As the rain began to fall harder, the men made quick work of unpacking Colleen's equipment. Colleen and Mullet stayed behind, while Toussaint left in the Humvee to drop off the other men, all of whom appeared as if sleep was high on their agenda.

* * *  
  


Bond lay awake for quite some time that evening.

It could have had something to do with his having slept so much over the course of the past day. He hated being inactive, and being confined to bed rest was akin to a prison cell, but it was hard to violate Che Che's recommendations when his father-in-law had taken so much pride in the young physician.

It could have also had something to do with Mullet sitting in a chair just outside his bedroom door. After being recruited out of the Royal Navy for intelligence work, Bond had found it increasingly hard to sleep deeply when he knew his life could be threatened. With field agents, insomniacs and light sleepers tended to life longer. Marc-Ange had told him he could trust Feale, Tanner told him to trust Colleen, and now Colleen had assured him he could trust her "hand-picked" men. Confidence in unknowns was not part of his nature, and his faith was not something that could be passed on from one "trusted" individual to the next. Bond wasn't too sure Mullet wouldn't hold the door open for Donn, much less take a bullet to protect a man who'd been his enemy up until a few days earlier.

Then again, it could have been the annoying pain of his ribs reminding him all was not well in his body politic, or maybe it was his confusion about Feale McCann and where her loyalties and affections might lay.

But, no, his lack of sleep this evening was being caused by the racket coming from his father-in-laws bedroom down the hallway from his own. Apparently his earlier thoughts regarding Marc-Ange's conditioning had been more than accurate, for Colleen's passionate screams echoed through the quiet house like an air raid siren. The orchestra of the springs of the bed and the percussion of the headboard striking the wall with enough force to make the pictures decorating Bond's room to quake accompanied her song. He was happy for Draco, but at the same time, the noise just emphasised his own current feelings of isolation, and loneliness. When was the last time he'd had two beautiful women in his bed in one day, and had failed to come away with no more than a feeling of disappointment?

After waiting for more than an hour for either Marc-Ange's passion, or his heart, to give out, Bond sat up and slowly dressed himself in the darkness, strapping on his shoulder holster over the medical wrappings. A little night air, and a closer look at the barracks just outside the compound, would help clear his head, and hopefully, his ears.

James Bond winced as he struggled to work into a black pullover, and then a pair of black pants. He was greeted, upon opening his door, by Mullet's upturned face. The man gave him a questioning look, to which Bond replied by pointing at his father-in-law's closed bedroom door, behind which the concert continued, and then down the stairs, ending with his dangling fingers emulating walking.

Mullet nodded, and rose to his feet.  


Once outside, he was happy to find the rain had finally stopped. He offered Mullet a Morland Special from his gunmetal case, but the other man shook his head. Bond lit the cigarette and drew in the smoke, along with the damp, warm night air.

"Your boss isn't one for modesty, is she?" Bond quipped to the silent IRA soldier. They both looked up to the Capu's bedroom window from which a "yes, yes, yes" chant had begun.

The man shrugged. It was clearly none of his concern.

"Well, I'm not sure about you, but I think a walk is in order," Bond said.

The street was slick and muddy, although not overtly so. Bond led the way, with Mullet trailing behind by several metres. The man obviously didn't want to talk to Bond, and Bond didn't really blame him. There had been many times in the past where he, himself, had been in the presence of men he knew he might one day have to kill. You never want to familiarise yourself too much, create any kind of bond. A large part of being an intelligence agent was learning to overcome psychological give-aways that could potentially alert a target, but in Mullet's case, any subtlety was unnecessary.

With the rain, the scents of the land, and the distant maquis, were even stronger. The smell, along with the humidity, covered him like a thick, green, spicy blanket. The winds, which had seemed like a constant the last few days, had died down.

As Bond walked toward the main gate, Colleen's cries began to fade behind them. By the time they reached the gate, they had almost dissipated all together. The gate was closed for the evening; with huge, steel door boltings locked into place, but next to it, was a small alcove build directly into the wall, where a more standard door to the outside world was located. It was within this enclave where the sentry leaned with his back against the wall.

The man greeted them in rough French, but Bond recognised Emiliano's voice almost immediately. Even though it had been only two days earlier, it seemed like weeks to Bond since this man had driven him to Monte Paese along with Toussaint.

After a brief discussion of greeting, inquires regarding Bond's injury, and a few off colour jibes regarding the sounds which were echoing down the street from Marc-Ange's house, Emiliano opened the door for Bond, and the still silent Mullet.

Outside, the high wall was an entirely different world. The clouds had cleared up enough that a three-quarters moon was visible, and lit some of their surroundings.

They sloshed through damp high grass and warm mud as they made their way toward the barracks at the back of the camp. A few hundred metres distant was a line of trees that ran parallel to their current path. As Bond had seen from his room window, behind the town, another line of trees cut across behind the barracks, forming a huge clearing which ran like a stripe toward higher ground off in the unforeseeable distance, further up into the mountains.

It was into this clearing, filled with the shadows of the tree line and the town walls that they now tread. The damp ground sucked at their feet as they began to cross the huge field. Marc-Ange had told him the barracks were empty for the time being, housing only Feale, and now, the four men Colleen had brought with her: the dark, empty buildings in the distance gave testament to it.

Although there were no signs of life in the structures (apparently the racket Marc-Ange and Colleen were making didn't carry this far) there was a solitary figure standing between the two men and the barracks.

The person had their back to Bond and Mullet, and apparently couldn't hear the men approaching as they stood, hands on hips, looking out at the distant tree line seemingly lost in thought. When the distance between them closed to less than half a city block, Bond could clearly see the figure had a feminine shape and stance. It was Feale, wearing nothing but a light nightdress.

Bond paused to watch the woman. The light, warm drizzle had returned and she stood there with her arms crossed before her, swaying slightly, her nightgown pasted to her body by the rain. He glanced back at Mullet, to see the man was also transfixed by the beautiful figure before them. Bond felt awkward, at what was obviously the intrusion of a private moment, and was about to clear his throat, when the first shot rang out from the woods.

The bullet bit the ground several metres behind Feale, kicking up a patch of mud and grass. All three of them reacted through training and initially fell to the muddy ground, seeking what little shelter there was in the high grass. Bond and Mullet, both with weapons in hand, opened fire on the edge of the woods, firing blind, but hoping to at least buy a few moments of cover.

Feale twisted on the ground to look back at them in surprise. Bond caught her eyes in the near dark, pointed at her, and then to the barracks that were about twenty metres to her left. Having regained her composure, she nodded back to him. He looked back to Mullet, and held up three fingers, then two, then one.

The two men rose to one knee in unison, and began to fire into the woods. Bond attempted to draw a line from where the bullet had struck, but it was no more than educated guessing. Feale was up and running, zigzagging toward the barracks like a rabbit in flight.

She made the relative safety of the structure, but the same moment as the door slammed shut, Mullet was struck in the throat by a round which tore away most of his neck, dropping him dead into the field. Bond ducked into the grass again, as further shots began to tear up the soil around him.

There was no flashpoint from the woods he could discern, but there had been enough shots fired now he'd been able to narrow down the point of origin to a slight notch in the tree line less than a hundred metres distant.

He loosed a few rounds while lying flat on his stomach, but he knew he was pinned. The Walther had enough stopping power at close distances, but there was no chance of doing damage from as far away as he was, and in these conditions.

It was then that the sound of broken glass came from the barracks Feale had sought shelter in. There was a deep thumping sound, and Bond watched as a line of smoke arched in the cloud-filtered moonlight from the broken window to the same patch of woods he'd been spraying with bullets. He quickly cupped his hands over his ears.

The forest erupted into flames as the grenade exploded, toppling some of the smaller trees and lighting up the night like a vision from Dante. The door of the barrack flew back open and Feale charged out, still bare-footed, still wearing no more than her nightgown. But she had accessorised for the occasion, having added a pair of M4A1's, one already strapped about her shoulder and tucked neatly under her arm, the other in her free hand, until she tossed it to him as she ran past him toward the forest, and the site of the explosion.

Bond caught the rifle out of the air cleanly, ignoring the pain his outstretched arm caused his ribs, and followed Feale toward the woods. The flames were still licking out, and crackling at the point of impact, but he doubted the fire would spread in the rain-drenched foliage. Feale went into the woods to the left of the fire, waving Bond to the right.

Using the trees for cover, and stepping over the high undergrowth, they made their way through the forest, and around the perimeter of the flames. It became clear, rather quickly, that their shooter hadn't escaped the carnage. The man's rifle had been thrown from the explosion, and lay in a twisted heap against the trunk of a tree. Upon finding it, Bond knew the shooter had been male. His right hand, torn free by the blast, still had its index finger on the trigger. He attempted to peer into the flames to see if he could make out the rest of the body, but it was to no avail. It would be best to wait for the morning to probe the ashes, he decided, less fire, more light.

Feale had crouched over the rifle, which Bond noted was a Tango 51, and poked at the hand.

"Is it Donn's" Bond asked her, the first words spoken between them throughout the entire affair.

She looked up at him, and shook her head. He'd already guessed at the answer, Donn didn't strike him as someone who could have botched that many shots, both he and Feale would have been dead.

"Too large, if I had a guess, I would say it was Ryan's," she said.

He was going to ask a further question, but a chunk of the tree they stood beneath, was torn away by another shot.

Bond looked back toward the field, attempting to spot the new shooter in the moonlight, but with cloud cover rolling in and the warm rain now intensifying, there was little chance of success. The most he could tell was that the shot had come from the field, the far tree line, or possibly, the barracks.

Both Bond and Feale ran deeper into the forest as several more shots streaked past them. With every breath he took, his face contorted with pain, and yet Bond barrelled forth knowing the agony was preferable to the alternative of standing ground. Feale was fighting her own battle as well, he noted. The two of them kept a distance from each other, diminishing the possible target, but Bond kept glancing to his left to follow her parallel flight through the woods. She was still running in bare feet, lacking the traction of Bond's boots, with the branches and undergrowth clawing at her exposed skin. Even as he watched, she fell, but then quickly regained her feet, without so much as a yelp to give away her location.

As with such situations, after a few minutes, he lost track of time. The pain in his side was soon married with fresh hurt from his legs and lungs, but he continued on. Several times, he fell himself, once cutting his arm on a sharp rock that jutted out from the floor of the maquis, another time battering a tree trunk with his head when he failed to catch his fall while clutching the rifle in his arms. The floor of the forest was a slick mess of mud, his feet finding purchase only on tree trunks and the loose mesh of ferns and vines that formed a lattice through the muck like a net.

The clouds and rain, paired with the canopy of the trees, had darkened the evening considerably, making progress even more harried, and yet he could still hear Feale bounding through the trees off in the distance. There hadn't been any more shots since the initial flurry, but Bond's instincts assured him they were still being pursued.

He'd run for what seemed like miles through the dense growth and muck, but he knew forests had a trick of disorienting hikers, so there was no way of telling how far they had come when he came to the ravine. For a few hundred metres he'd been following a flood channel through the woods, taking advantage of a path cleared of growth, but still struggling to find solid purchase on the slick bed where a growing stream was gaining current. The ravine was disguised well by the natural camouflage of the forest, and Bond suddenly found the jungle giving away before him, and beneath him.

He tried to stop but there was no traction to be had in the streambed, he shot out into the open air, with a fountain of water, and plummeted into the mud lining lined the riverbed beneath him.

His landing was somewhat cushioned by the warm mire, but Bond had to grit to swallow a scream arising from the jarring his ribs took as he landed flat on his back, rifle held securely to his chest. He would have been sucked into the rushing, newly formed river, but there were several tree roots lacing out from the bank, and the edges of the ravine, that he grabbed onto for security.

James Bond looked up and over to where Feale had been running, to find the ravine had taken her by surprise as well, although she hadn't swallowed the hook as poorly as he had. She dangled at the edge of the gully, some fifteen metres above where he now lay, grasping to an outcropping of undergrowth, her own rifle dangling out behind her like a black lamprey hanging on for life. As he watched, she pulled herself back up to the forest floor and then began to waive him over to where she stood.

He regained his feet on the slippery riverbank with no little effort, and then walked over, beneath where she stood. She was now crouching, listening to the forest from whence they'd come, apparently waiting for any sign of pursuit, her rifle in ready position. As the rain wiped away his painful sweat, he climbed the bank, using the roots that had been washed free of their footholds.

When he gained the lip, Feale helped to pull him over. She looked a wreck. Her gown, or what was left of it, was torn to shreds in a fashion that would have immobilised a more modest woman out of embarrassment. Her entire body was covered in small cuts whose crimson drippings ran black in the dim light, and although Bond couldn't see the bottoms of her bare feet, he could easily imagine they'd been beaten to the consistency of raw, ground meat. And yet, her beautiful, but lacerated, face betrayed nothing but concentration as she continued to monitor the woods.

"Is he still coming?" Bond whispered, now hunkered down next to her.

She nodded, and pointed back into the jungle.

"A few hundred metres, and he's making no effort to disguise it, running at a pretty good pace."

Bond thought for a moment.

"So the ravine should take him by surprise as well."

"As long as he isn't a local, and is unfamiliar with the lay of the land," she said. They both knew the chances we're pretty good their pursuer had been born a long ways from Corsica.

"Crossfire," he told her. She nodded again in return, pointing at a distant lip of the ravine barely visible in the darkness.

Bond wasted no time, and began to make his way along the edge of the gorge, clinging to the plant growth along the edge. When he came to the overrun spout he'd launched from only a few minutes earlier, he carefully leapt across the mouth.

Finally, he found himself at a "V" of land that reached out above the rushing water beneath him.

From here, there was no sign of Feale in the distance, but he knew she was there, crouched amongst the scrub. He turned his own attentions to the jungle, and found it was easy now to make out the thrashing sounds of an approaching figure.

Bond laced his left arm about some stiff vines, allowing him to lean out even further over the water beneath; the wider the angle, the less chance there would be of catching Feale with a stray shot, and the less chance there would be of becoming a victim of the same.

Now, the sounds were much closer, and Bond was fairly certain the man had taken the same path he'd taken in the end, following the clearer trail, along the running water. It would be any moment now.

Just before the figure emerged from the forest, Bond cursed himself silently for not suggesting to Feale to keep the target alive. If it wasn't Donn, then there was a chance the information the man could provide could be invaluable in figuring out the assassin's next move. But Bond knew, having heard her story earlier, that if Feale was playing it straight with him, she would be aiming to kill. Donn had as much to fear from this woman, as she had from him. Add to that, he reminded himself, that terrorists weren't generally in the business of leaving their victims breathing. And then there was always the comforting fact of why the IRA wanted Donn dead at the hands of an Englishman in the first place: if they we're to both gun down the man, then, surly Colleen would gleefully report an English commander had martyred a hero of the Irish cause.

The man emerged from the fountainhead a little more gracefully than Bond had, turning in time to grasp at the branches and roots of the surrounding trees. For what seemed like an eternity, but was in reality only a few moments, the man hung there vulnerably, flailing to keep his footing on the slick walls of the narrow valley.

Bond made a quick decision and strafed the man's legs with bullets, hoping that when Feale's shots came, they would be less than lethal. The man screamed, but didn't fall.

There was some commotion from where Feale had been crouched in hiding, following by a string of obscenities even Bond could pick up, above the man's screams, and the roaring of the black current below. She had blown her cover, and was banging away at her rifle like a petulant child. A jammed rifle, probably caused by their less-than-clean flight through the woods, had caused her temper and her need for revenge to get in the way of her common sense.

"Stupid, stupid, girl," he muttered, raising his rifle to fire again, not wanting to leave her exposed. They could discuss field tactics later.

But he was too late. The man dangling from the mouth of the stream had gained his own weapon with a freed hand and used it to tear up the brush where she had been hiding.

As Bond's own weapon came to life again, making the man's body dance in a deadly hail, there was a brief scream from Feale's position, and her distant figure fell awkwardly to the riverbed below. Bond cursed beneath his breath.

The lifeless body of the man was now hung from the roots of the embankment like a macabre Christmas ornament. His face, now clear of his hood, revealed the features of the man who'd been introduced to Bond earlier that evening as Connolly.  Satisfied he no longer presented a threat, Bond took a seat at the edge of the gorge, and began a somewhat controlled descent down the slope on his backside, grunting in pain with every bump and jostle.

She lay at the bottom of the ravine, her body spread-eagled on the muddy bank, while her head was partially submerged under the flood current.

As Bond rushed to her side, his own body heaved with exhaustion. He knew they were exposed out here in the open, but there comes a point where physically you just can't care any more. He was wavering, before falling to his knees beside her motionless form. Lifting her head from the water, he could feel the rock just beneath the surface of the stream she must have struck with her skull upon falling. His tired fingers searched for, and found, a strong heartbeat at the carotid. He then probed the back of her skull, and found the contusion. The skin did not appear to be broken, and he doubted if there was any serious damage beyond unconsciousness. Even as he thought this, he could feel her beginning to stir.

They stayed there like that for a while; he, sitting in the thick mud, his chest heaving, his ribs, and a hundred other unarticulated points of his body throbbing in pain, she, with her head in his lap, her face being slowly showered with the warm rain. His head groggy from exertion, he sat absently stroking her short, auburn hair, brushing it back from her face in gentle sweeps from his hand.

When her eyes slowing creaked open, reflexively blinking back the rain, he couldn't make out the green of her irises, for the darkness about them. Coming to the realisation of where she lay, Feale sat up, propping herself up on arms extended behind her. She looked up to the bank above, where the tangled corpse of their pursuer lay dead.

Seemingly satisfied, she looked back to Bond, their faces only inches apart.

"You look like shite," she informed him.

This brought a tired smile to his face.

"And feel even worse," he said.

She pulled the rifle strap over her head, and tossed the jammed weapon further up the bank.

"English men are such babes when it comes to pain," she grimaced as she said this, first in pain, and then, in frustration when she looked down at her tattered night dress, through which more of her creamy pale skin was showing than she obviously preferred. She quickly moved her hands to cover some of the more offending revelations.

All thoughts of other men creeping though the woods in search of their murder, of the corpse only a few feet away, of the rushing stream of flood water just beyond his reach, and the faces of the English men and women this woman had assisted in killing, fell away in tired drudgery. There were only the two of them here at the moment.

"Don't go to too much trouble on my account," he said.

Feale looked up at this, and he met her pale, thin lips with his own. The powerful and capable woman trembled beneath the kiss, but did not pull away. Quite the opposite, she leaned into it, and eventually laced her arms behind his neck, responding with pure hunger, aggressively pressing his face against her own.

His own muddied hands searched out the beauty hidden beneath her tattered, frail clothing, caressing her skin with his touch.

Bond shed his own rifle, and then his clothing. The warmth of the rain and mud upon his bare skin was amazingly arousing, and their bodies came together in an easy sliding, and well-lubricated, embrace.

Unlike his father-in-law, and his new amour, any words of passion, or cries of pleasure, they had for one another were lost in the roar of the foaming water.

She demanded much from him, he gave her all he could, and in the end they fell asleep there on the bank, entwined with one another, both fully painted with the earth of Corsica.  



	9. All the Queen's Horses

**_ SEQ CHAPTER \h \r 1_****__****_CHAPTER TEN: ALL THE QUEEN'S HORSES_**

**__**

          Under different circumstances, in a saner world, two exhausted, new lovers might have had the opportunity to spend the night in each other's arms, curled together in the warm womb of the _maquis.  But their world was far from sane, and their new day began long before the sun could bridge the cloudy sky._

          Bond awoke to the sound of the Cane Corsos barking in the distance, teamed with calling voices.  It was still pitch black outside as he gently removed Feale's nestled head from the crook of his arm.  She stirred, and then sat up quickly as the sound of the dogs came to her.

          He found his clothes by feeling with his hands along the side of the ravine.  They were soaking wet, and covered in mud, but they were better than nothing at all.  After rinsing his peasant shirt in the river, and carefully wringing it dry, he tossed it to Feale.

          Without thanks, without so much as even a glance of recognition, Feale pulled the top on, attempting to cover herself appropriately.

          The Cane Corsos had reached the edge of the ravine, and were now showering them with a rain of barks and howls.

          Bond had just finished adjusting his pants, and struggling into his water-logged boots when the first beams of lanterns began to pierce the night above them.

          "Sweet Jesus," he heard a voice say as the lights fell upon the lifeless body of Connolly.  The dogs paused for a moment to sniff at the corpse, but then ambled on down the embankment.

          Feale greeted the arrival of the Mastiffs with open arms, hugging the animals and working the loose flesh about their necks with fond attention.  Bond lowered a hand for those few who approached him; they scented him idly, and then returned to Feale for their share of affection.

          The lantern light followed the path of the huge dogs down from the ravine's edge, and finally came to rest on him.

          "James, thank God," he heard Marc-Ange's voice boom from above.  Looking up he could see his father-in-law's face reflected in the glow of the lanterns.  There were at least ten other people gathered behind him, including Che Che, Colleen, and Troy, her remaining, handpicked man.    

"We heard the explosion," he continued, Bond was surprised the old man could have heard anything at all through the din earlier.  "And the gunfire.  Are you all right?  Where the devil is your shirt?"

          Bond was about to offer up a reply, when the searching lantern light moved over to where Feale was still sitting on the ground with the dogs, her bare legs protruding from Bond's shirt which was doing an inadequate job of covering her appropriately.

          "Oh," he heard Marc-Ange say from above.  "There it is."

          There was some muffled laughter from the assembled crowd.  When Bond looked up again, he could see that an embarrassed Che Che was attempting to avert his eyes, as were most of those gathered.

          But one pair of eyes still shone down on them with intensity.  Colleen's gaze locked with his own for a few moments, before flashing back over to Feale, and for that brief time he could feel the intense hatred burning within the beautiful, dark haired woman.  As if realising she was dropping her cover, Colleen forced a grin, and joined the rest of them in their amusement, but there had been no mistaking the malice there a moment before.  Even as she laughed, her eyes laid heavily on Feale, who finally returned her gaze, at first with profound sadness written upon her features, but as the two women continued to look at each other, Feale's glare became almost defiant.

          Bond's thoughts returned to earlier, when he'd wondered if there might have been something more than friendly between the two Irish women.  Was Colleen simply upset at the lack of discipline in sleeping with the enemy, or was she angry at the fact that Bond was still breathing?  After all, some of her handpicked men had apparently rotted on the vine, which cast no little suspicion upon her.

* * *

          With the exception of Marc-Ange, the walk back to _Monte Paese was a quiet one.  The forest forced them into a single line formation with Che Che taking the lead, followed by some of the townsmen.  Bond, Marc-Ange, Feale, Colleen, and Troy were all in the middle of the pack.  Now with some sleep in him, Bond was back to being on edge, his eyes scanning the still dark foliage for any sign of life.  Strung out like this, it would have been easy for Donn to pick and choose his targets at will, and there was no telling how many of those amongst them might be playing on the wrong team._

          "So," Marc-Ange prodded him.  "Would you like to tell me why my beautiful countryside is now filled with craters and bodies?"

          "I believe you are asking the wrong person, Marc-Ange," Bond shot back.

          He couldn't see the face of the man behind him, but he could feel the angry gaze which flared at his backside.

          "Are you trying to imply…" his father-in-law began.

          "I'm implying nothing," Bond now let his own temper show.  Sometimes, the only way to deal with Old-World types like Marc-Ange was to match laughs with laughs, and screams with screams.  "Two men I was assured were here to protect me, just attempted to murder Feale and myself.  If you want to discuss this further, we can do so when the company is a little more select."

          Bond said the last loud enough for it to carry on down the line.  Colleen, who'd been having a hushed, one-sided conversation with a dejected looking Feale, stopped talking for a few moments.

          Marc-Ange surprised him by laughing, but when he spoke again, there was little humour in his voice.

          "Be careful, James.  There is a line your bravado should not cross."

          _Or what, Bond thought to himself.  __I'll end up dead?  Threats were almost laughable to him at this point.  He'd been on edge on since Houston, and his wits were now burned to the point where his life seemed to be in free fall.  For God's sake, he was sleeping in the home of the leader of a terrorist organisation, and he'd just made love to an IRA assassin.  A week earlier, all of this would have seemed comical.  Somehow, he doubted if M would see the humour in it all._

          As if reading his thoughts, Marc-Ange spoke up.

          "Oh, and your man, Tanner, he's been calling almost non-stop.  Something about prophylactics and horses."

          Bond stopped so suddenly Marc-Ange nearly walked into him.

If things could get any worse, he believed they were about to.

          "Marc-Ange, did he say, "All the king's horses?""

          "Yes, that would be it," he replied.  "What does it mean?"

          Very quietly, Bond muttered, "It means agents in the field are dead.  It means that I'm on my own."

* * *

          "What happened?" Bond asked the phone, scrambler in place.  It was good to be back in his room at Marc-Ange's home, but he was uneasy with the way Feale had gone off to the barracks with Colleen.  Almost sheepishly following the taller woman like a drone, without even so much as a look back at Bond.

          Tanner told him about the ferry, and the crude bomb that had killed over forty people, leaving only a handful of horribly maimed survivors.   

          "Bill's alive, but he's critical, I'm afraid the best he can hope for is to be in a wheelchair the rest of his life, and he's lost an eye.  The rest of his team was below deck; they didn't stand a chance.  Needless to say, you're going to have to make due for a few days.  How are Colleen's people holding up?"

          "They aren't," Bond replied, before relating the events of the evening.  At the end, Tanner whistled.

          "Well, I can talk to the old man, but you can pretty well imagine what he's going to say."

          "He'll tell me to get the hell out of here.  The only problem is, there's nowhere to go.  I've got to assume Colleen and her remaining man are compromised, and although I still think Marc-Ange is playing me straight, his people are something of a mixed hand."

          "How about this McCann woman, where do you think her alliances lay?"

          Bond paused.

          "I've checked her out, but there still might be questions.  However things go, though, I plan on going to ground this evening.  How long before we can get a new team in?"

          "Of good people?  A day, day and a half, maybe."

          "Tell them to meet me in Vizzavona in two day's time.  I'll take Marc-Ange's cell phone with me, but I'll be travelling light."  They went over a few more details of when and where, but by the end of the call, Bond was resigned to trading his comfortable bed at _Monte Paese for the __maquis.  But there were still two people he had to speak to."_

* * *

          "You're mad," Marc-Ange raged, pacing back and forth in his room like a caged animal.  "There is no where on this island safer than _Monte Paese for you.  If you go to the hills, the bandits will take care of Donn's work for him, and if you go into the __maquis, it will be like walking into the mouth of a giant predator.  I'm afraid it is quite impossible.  I owe my dear Teresa more than that.   I cannot let you commit suicide."_

          Bond was content to let him vent for a few moments.

          "I'll have some men slap you into our little jail.  Then when your precious M's men arrive, we can just hand them the key."

          "That isn't how things are going to be," Bond said.

          "Oh, and why is that?" the older man looked over to find Bond now held the Walther in his hand.

          "You say you train soldiers here, Marc-Ange.  Well, then you should understand that I am a soldier, and that I have been given an order."

          It seemed to be a peculiar Corsican trait that the men smiled when they were endangered.  Marc-Ange held true to his lineage.

          "So, this is how it goes.  I invite you into my home to protect you, and you draw your pistol on me?  This is a strange way for guests in my country to behave?"

          "Is it any stranger," Bond replied.  "Than a host threatening to imprison a guest?"

Draco shook his head and dismissively swiped his hand in the air at Bond.

          "Put the thing away, you're embarrassing both of us."

          Against his better judgement, Bond complied.

          "I wish you could just trust Colleen," Marc-Ange said.

          "There are four dead Englishmen tonight who trusted her, and a better man than I is in a hospital is being held together by surgical tape and gauze because of me.  I at least owe it to them to try and keep myself alive."

          His father-in-law sat down on the edge of the bed he'd shared the night before with the woman in question.

          "James, if you insist on being crazy, at least let me go with you.  I know the language, and there isn't a bandit on this island who would dare touch me."  Bond was already shaking his head, but the old man went on.  "There are places higher up in the mountains, shepherd huts made of stone, I've known them as well as my face since the time I was a boy.  Certainly you have not lost your trust in me as well."

          Bond thought hard on this for a moment, and then chose his words as carefully as he could.

          "No, but you are sleeping with the enemy."

          "And what is that clever expression you English have about the pot calling the kettle black?"

          Bond held his hand up to silence the older man.

          "I'm not arguing with you, Marc-Ange, but I have to turn down your offer.  You've already risked too much just having me here."  The Capu started to protest, but now it was Bond's turn to override the other man's complaints. " I'm not dragging a 70-year-old man up a mountain, I owe our dear Tracey more than that.  This monster, Donn, has threatened to kill the one's I care for before my eyes.  I'd rather not give him the chance."

          Marc-Ange made his disagreement clear while staring down at his open palms resting in his lap.

          "Always with your head, and never with your heart, James.  You give age too much credit.  How about this then, I pick a man to go with you?  Someone to be a guide, maybe a former shepherd, who could at least get you where you are going.  And, need I remind you, you are not exactly the pinnacle of health yourself at the moment, an extra pair of hands, or an extra gun, may be of use.  If you cannot trust Colleen's men, at least you could trust mine."

          Bond began to reject this, but then thought it through again.  There was no guarantee he could even find his way to Vizzavona.

          "Alright then, but I have to agree with your choice.  And if so much as a whisper of my leaving reaches Feale or Colleen, you'll have to cut him down from a tree."

          But the old Capu had achieved his victory.

          "Agreed, then," he said, handing over his cell phone.

          "Agreed," Bond replied.  "Tell your man to meet us near the gate at noon, and to bring whatever he needs with him."

          On his way out, James Bond opened the front door, to find himself face to face with Colleen, the ever-present Troy hovering just a few feet behind her.

          "Are you done interrogating Feale?" he bitterly asked, still standing in the doorway, blocking her entrance, and his own exit.

          A cloud made its way across the beautiful woman's features, but then dissipated.

          "Obviously, you have your reasons to be upset, Mr. Bond.  Feale told me what happened, and I know an apology will not suffice."

          "That's a damn understatement," he told her bluntly.

          "We've attempted to keep this within the family, so to speak," she continued, as if she'd never been interrupted.  "The men I chose, and myself, we all came through the hostel at Saint Peter's.  After what happened to Tom Barry, I just assumed some of his prize pupils would be the ones most up for the mission.  Unfortunately, we all knew Peter Sullivan as well.  But don't forget, one of my men died fighting at your side."

          "So," he asked.  "Have you told Feale about Barry yet?"

          The woman looked away, somewhat guiltily.  

          "No, and I wouldn't suggest you do so either.  He was closer to Peter and Feale, than any of us.  They were ... they were a real family.  If you tell her now, in her current state," she paused here, giving him an accusing look meant to tell him his recent escapades hadn't done much to improve Feale's mental condition, "it wouldn't be very constructive.  If Donn is out there somewhere, then she needs to be sharp if she is going to survive.  Do us both a favour, and give her some distance."

          Bond wanted to tell her, if she were truly concerned about Feale's mental state, then she should have assembled her team more carefully.  What good was well being when one is dead?

          But there was no time to argue with the woman.  The attempt on Feale's life the night before may have been something Donn could have ordered from a distance, but the man was sure to enter the play before too long.  If the purpose of the dance was to lead to Bond's own death, then the assassin would certainly want to end it himself.  His inner sense told him Donn was near, and if he wanted to clear out, it would have to be soon.  If he isolated himself, Bond hoped, there would be no sense for the man to attempt to kill Marc-Ange, or any of the others.  Donn wasn't a joy killer, every death was meant to achieve an end, and if the end was to torment Bond, then there was no point in killing when Bond wouldn't even be aware of it.

          "Well, say "hello" to Dad for me," he said, brushing past her, out into the street, where the morning light was becoming more pronounced.

          "Where are you going?" she asked.  "We still have a job to do.  Troy will accompany you."

          The man took a few steps after him as if to follow, but Bond turned around and addressed them while walking backwards.

          "If Troy follows me more than ten metres, he'll breathe through a tube for the rest of his God-given life," he informed her.

          The other man gritted his teeth.

          "I'd like to see you try," the Irishman muttered with a dockside accent. Colleen just rolled her eyes.

          "It's your funeral," she said to his Bond's back.

          A tired-looking Emiliano was still on gate duty, he gave a wave to Bond as the man walked through the now open main entrance.

          "Try not to kill anyone this time," the Corsican yelled out.

          Bond just flashed him his own tired smile and waved.

          The mud was still thick, but his journey to the barracks was much more uneventful in the morning light.  The scene from the previous evening was still an ugly scar on the beauty of the forest.  The flames were long since dead, and there weren't even any traces of whisping smoke to mark Ryan's grave.  The charred branches and fallen trees looked like a scab at the edge of the _maquis.  Bond poked about the ashes, trying to turn up anything of value, but the scene had already been cleared.  Apparently Ryan's body had been removed along with Mullet's, and even the Tango 51 was now missing.  The area had been very effectively swept and cleaned._

          He wondered absently where all the bodies had gone, or parts of bodies.  Remembering the ornate graves Toussaint had shown him on their way in, he somehow doubted the would-be assassins from the evening before had warranted such extravagance.  It was much more likely, Corsican respect for the dead aside, they had ended up in a ditch somewhere, covered with dirt and waiting for the dark soil to quickly claim them.

          James Bond took a moment to think of where his body would have found its rest if things had turned out differently.  He decided it would depend upon who had found the body.  If it were Marc-Ange, most likely he'd be next to Teresa, a thought he found comforting, knowing they would finally find the time together in death they'd been denied in life.  However, if it were Donn, or his men, the most he could hope for was an unmarked hole in the ground.  Most likely, he'd just be left to rot in the _maquis, _his body eventually becoming one with the Corsican earth.

          He trudged back to the barracks, and put his ear to the door of the one Feale had sought refuge in the night before.  Having heard nothing, he quietly entered through the unlocked door, using a lifetime of experience to remain unnoticed.

          The banks of fluorescent lights lining the ceiling were off, so the only light filtered in through the curtainless windows.  The entire length of the barrack lay before him, and he could clearly make out that only one bed was made up, and it was occupied with a sleeping figure.

          _Goldilocks, Bond absently thought as he treaded the distance between Feale and himself.   She finally awoke as he sat down on the edge of the bunk she occupied, causing the latticework of springs and coils beneath to scream with strain._

          She was up quickly, with an unannounced knife in hand that stretched out to caress his throat.  Bond caught her hand deftly, removing the blade that until a few moments earlier had been concealed beneath her pillow.

          His eyes locked on hers, he set the knife aside.

          "What are you doing here?" she asked, the lilt of her voice as intoxicating as ever.

          Rather than answer out loud, he just cocked his head slightly at her.

          After a few moments she muttered, "Oh."

          Bond smiled down at her.

          "Listen, Mr. Bond," she began.

          "James," he interrupted.

          "Listen Bond," she began again.  "Just because last night I was out of sorts gives you no right to come sneaking…"

          Bond quickly reached out with his right hand and grabbed her violently by the hair at the back of her skull.  Before she could so much as scream, he brought his mouth down on her own in a savage caress, which she fought at first, but then finally succumbed to, entwining her own arms around his and gripping his back.  When they finally separated, she was unable to contain the little smirk working its way across her scowling lips.

          "Someday, I'll pull your arm out of your socket for that," she informed him.

          Never letting his steel blue eyes fall from her own, he whispered, "Methinks the lady doth protest too much."  Their lips met again, and this time, other body parts followed in tune.

Somewhere during the lovemaking, while astride him, she paused long enough to look down at him with dawning affection in her amazing eyes.

"I guess I was wrong," she admitted.  "Englishmen are good for something."

Afterward, they lay together for a while, listening to each other breathe.  Unlike Samantha, Bond knew there was no foundation here.  If they were to survive this episode, any future meetings between the two of them would certainly end in an arrest, or death.  This thing between them was something born of the moment, and in truth, it was the sort of relationship Bond had become more accustomed to.  The lack of depth gave him the opportunity to do, and say, the things necessary for the proper execution of his job.

          "There's just one thing I don't understand," he asked her while brushing his fingertips up and down her exposed mid-drift.  "Why did you tell Donn I was coming if you knew he wanted to kill you as well?"

          So much for Colleen's request not to cause Feale any more stress.  The woman recoiled away from him so hard she nearly fell out of the narrow bed.  She gained her feet and began to back away from him.

          "What are you saying?" there was anger in her voice, but not enough in Bond's opinion to feign honesty.

          "I'm saying my father-in-law told his people at _Monte Paese I was coming, and he told you.  Now, for me to survive, I have to trust Marc-Ange, and I'm familiar with the loyalty a village gives their Capu."  This was a broad-faced lie; Bond had little, if any, faith in the trustfulness of Draco's men.  He'd been betrayed by the best, and wouldn't even bare his back to a priest.  But his instincts told him there was a rabbit to be flushed here, and if he lost Feale in the process, then it was a burden he was willing to shoulder._

          "So this is how you do things, James?" she had backed up against her storage locker, standing naked before him.  "First you pump the girl, then you pump her for information?  I certainly hope you have more to accuse me with than blind trust of a bunch of bandits."  Even though her words and beautiful defencelessness had a dramatic effect on him, he carried on.

          "I checked your rifle last night," he told her.  "The chamber was empty, and the action was clean; there was no jam.  You could have shot Connolly last night, and yet you risked your own life, even made a spectacle of yourself to warn him.  What was wrong?  Were you worried it was Donn behind us?"

          No scathing comebacks this time, nor a verbal confession of guilt, but for a brief moment she her gaze did drop from his.  He'd just been fishing; hoping his concerns were unfounded, but now he knew his suspicious mind had won out over his emotions once again.

          "F*** you," she finally told him, producing a beautiful .45 from behind the storage cabinet so swiftly he didn't even have an opportunity to reach for his own weapon.

          "I think we already took care of that," he replied coolly while quickly assessing his options.

          "You think you know so much, but you don't know shite, Mister," she told him, the gun's aim never wavering from the middle of his chest.  If she chose, she could open a tunnel the size of a grapefruit through his upper body with the weapon.

          Would there even be a chance to go for his own gun, which was strewn with his own clothes on the empty bunk next to her own?  Probably not, he decided, but was there any other chance of getting out of here.

          "Get the hell out of here?" she told him as if she were reading his thoughts, tears actually starting to well within her eyes.

          _What the hell? he thought.  __Was there a chance he was wrong about her?_

          "Feale," he started to ask, but she'd begun to cry for real now, shaking with the strength of her emotions.

          The gun roared, and the pillow on the bed exploded like a feathery bomb.

          "Just get your clothes and get the hell out of here, you bastard."

          Rather than tempt fate twice, he took her advice.

          Bond did as he was told; he'd always tried not to lend too much faith to hysterical women.  Getting the f*** out of here, as she'd put it so well, was exactly what he intended.  As he slipped into his pants, and rough peasant top, he wondered one last time why this woman would cover for Donn.  But there was one last task to accomplish.

          "He killed Tom Barry, you know," he said as he cautiously backed his way to the door.

          A look crossed her already emotion filled features like a cold wind.  It took her several moments to collect herself, and Bond was nearly to the door.

          "You lie, you British always lie," she spat.  "Tom is our father."

          "He blew his head off at _Tech Duinn.  Right in the kitchen, I hear.  Just ask your friend Colleen, if you don't believe me."_

          The woman screamed, and loosed another volley of bullets in his direction, but even if there had been an attempt to aim at him, he was already out the door.

          "I'll kill you if you come back," she screamed after him.

          "Get in line," he said to himself as he began his last long walk back to _Monte Paese._

_          If she was working with Donn, or even had an inkling of where he was, he knew that he'd just fired a very deadly bullet at his would be assassin.  _

          Upon re-entering the town, Bond was accosted by Emiliano and Che Che at the gate.

          "There, you see," Emiliano remarked to the giant.  "I told you it would take him more than an hour."

          Che Che just shook his head.

          "You're a pig, Emil," he told the other man with a grin, as he matched Bond's gait.

          "How are the ribs, James?" he asked.

          "Sufferable," Bond replied.

          "And you think you're ready to travel by foot?"

          Bond looked up into the scarred and ugly face of the young physician.

          "He wants to send you," Bond asked incredulously.  "Is he insane?  He talks about how his town needs a doctor, and about how much he has spent on your education, and then he tries to send you off to the slaughter."

          Che Che shrugged.

          "As you found out the other night, I'm quite capable of taking care of myself.  I'm a Corsican before I am a doctor.  There isn't a better man in this village to lead you to wherever you're going.  I was a shepherd as a young boy, and I know every rock along the mountains, and every town and nook for 50 kilometres.  In addition, it might help to have a doctor along, I have an idea you may need one."__

_          Arguing with both Marc-Ange and Feale had left Bond drained, and Che Che could read the quick defeat in his face._

          "When are we leaving?" he asked.

          "Can you meet me at Marc-Ange's at noon?" Bond asked.

          Che Che shook his head.

          "If you are attempting to avoid Colleen and her little friend.  It would be wiser for you to meet me, let's say, at the church."

          "Fine, fine," Bond agreed.  "Between you and Marc-Ange, it's amazing the two of you let me wipe my arse by myself.  Take what you'll need for a couple of days travel."

          The large man slapped him on the back, and then left him standing there alone in the middle of the dirt street.  Bond looked around one last time, taking in the town with its white walls, red roofs, and the continual soundtrack of children's happy voices playing in the background.  It was a good world...but not his world.  It was time to get back to the things he knew best.

          As Bond entered the house, he could hear Draco and Colleen's voices coming from the dining room accompanied by the traditional sounds of eating.

          Marc-Ange called out for him to join them, but Bond refused, saying it was time that he caught up on lost sleep.  He did lie down for half an hour, listening to the sounds of the house, and using some relaxation exercises to ease the strain on his body.  His ribs hurt like hell, but he was becoming quite adept at blocking it out.  

          Satisfied with his own readiness, he arose and packed a pull string sack with supplies, and some of the tools of his trade.  He looked out his window onto the small back alley below.  Making sure no eyes were upon him, he tossed the sack to the ground, and then followed, dangling himself from the ledge by his fingertips, and then dropping to the ground.  The jarred landing would have been enough to make a lesser man cry out in agony, but Bond swallowed the pain like a familiar, but bitter, medicine.

          Sticking to the small alleys between the houses, Bond was able to make his way to the Church.  His head ducked, he crossed a nearly empty street and quickly entered the threshold.  

          Like most Corsican villages, the church was the centre of town, as well as the tallest building therein, an architectural statement about the importance of worship to the people of Napoleon's island.

          As he entered the dark, unairconditioned building, he paused a few moments to let his eyes adjust.  The only lighting seemed to be coming from the small sanctuary, which was directly before him.  There were a few high windows allowing the morning light to creep into the room, leaving a sea of shadowy recesses.  There was some flickering candlelight from where worshippers had placed their remembrances to their holy mother.

          Bond squinted, but couldn't make out anyone seated in the rows of pews.  In fact, with the exception of the unchecked confessional booths, he appeared to have the building to himself.  That was until the huge hand came from the shadows behind the door just to his right, and laid itself on his shoulder.

          "Tag, you're it," Che Che's voice came to him in Americanised English.

          Bond hadn't startled at the touch, he just turned and looked up into the thankfully hidden facial features of the giant.

          "So, where do we go from here?"  Bond inquired.

          Che Che motioned with his hand, waiving him forward into the darkness, off to the side of the sanctuary.  Bond followed in silence.

          He heard, more than saw the man before him open a door, and then there was a near-blinding light as they stepped into a crude wash room with a high window in one corner.

          "No electricity," Che Che told him.  "The church has been here for centuries, the town grew up around it, and then the walls grew around the town.  In fact, the church was known as _Monte Paese, before the locals gave the name to the town herself."_

          Bond wanted to let him know the bathroom smelled as if it had been there for centuries, but there was nothing to be gained from insulting what the giant obviously held so dear.

          There was another door within the room, this one a typical lightweight, slated wood closet door.  When Che Che opened it, Bond's eyes were greeted by exactly what he'd expected.  There was a rough looking floor sink with a tired mop hanging on a hook above it.  A large metallic waste container rested in the rear of the closet, and it was this Che Che gripped with his huge arms.  The giant grunted and the container scooted off to one side revealing a hidden stone stairway leading down into absolute darkness.  

          Whatever was down there in the musty black, Bond thought, made the bathroom smell like roses in comparison.

          Che Che pulled a large knapsack from within the trash container, and worked it onto his shoulder.  He withdrew an electric torch and handed it to Bond.  The stairway entrance was less than a metre high, and Bond had to take to his knees and back into crevasse.   

          Once inside, he could gain his feet again, although he was still unable to rise to his full height without scraping his head on the ceiling.

          Che Che shut the door to the closet, and then followed him into the crawlspace, filling the small cavity of the entrance with his bulk like a total eclipse of the sun.  Bond wondered for a moment if he would have to pull the other man through by the legs, but then Che Che bean to descend the steps behind him.

          Bond turned the torch to the stairway going down before him, struggling to make out a landing several metres below them in the murky, cobwebbed passage.

          "Some of the locals will tell you these catacombs were built by the Romans," Che Che spoke out loud now, apparently unconcerned about being overheard beneath the layer of stone and dirt separating them and the chapel above.  Bond followed suit.

          "But if the whole village knows this place exists, why hide it?"

          "The Corsican people have been here a long time, James.  Generations have sought refuge down here.  From the Nazis, to the Italians, to the French, we've been occupied in one form or another for over five hundred years.  And we still are."

          As they reached the bottom, and Bond shone the light out into the large chamber before them, he understood completely.  As far as the light could reach into the low-ceiling hell, there were crates and crates of what were clearly marked as weapons, ammunitions, foodstuffs, and medical supplies.  The people of _Monte Paese were capable of running a small war out of their church basement._

          Che Che now took the lead, quickly guiding Bond across the sea of boxes.  It took them several minutes to reach the far side of the bunker, where embedded in a solid wall of stone, was a steel blast door. 

          "Marc-Ange did not want you to see all this," Che Che informed him.  "But he knew you wanted to leave unannounced, and unseen.  So the catacombs were the easiest route."

          So M had been more than justified in his concerns, and Bond shook his head at his own naivety.  Not only was Marc-Ange training terrorists, but he was concealing a large enough stash of arms to leave little doubt that he was dealing.  The old man would certainly be able to have a "Humph" at his expense if Bond lived long enough to report in again.

          Che Che produced a key, and the door gave way before them into a tight tunnel that appeared to have been carved directly into the stone.  In another, seemingly miraculous, act of contortion, Che Che crawled into the tunnel on his hands and knees, being careful to leave the door propped open with his foot.

          "Don't worry, it will swing shut behind us," Che Che assured him.  Bond didn't want to admit it, but it was the idea of the door closing behind them, trapping them in this tiny crawlspace that slowly ascended into nowhere, he found unnerving.

          "I will attempt to hold any flatulence until the end of our journey," the large man said with a laugh.  "But I can make no promises."

          When the steel door clanged shut, there was absolute darkness.  Finally, Che Che flicked on the lantern, and they began the gruelling climb, the hard stone biting into their knees with every crawl.

          Bond had always been proud of his sense of time, but here beneath the ground, wasted from a river of pain flowing from his ribs and knees, it deserted him.

          "How far does this go?" he finally asked his guide.

          "I've never measured it properly, but I remember it takes more than an hour and a half." Che Che called back without stopping.

          Bond was now sweating heavily, and he paused to catch his breath, and absorb what he'd just been told.

          "Not claustrophobic are you, James?" the other man asked.

          "Not in the least," Bond replied.  "I was just coming to grips with how long I would have to look at your ass."

          This comment brought a huge booming laugh from the man before him.

          "Now, that's more like it," he chortled.  "We are what the Americans call "bonding," are we not?"

          "Just keep crawling, you ox," Bond told him.  "We can bond all you want once we get out of this hell hole."

          After what seemed an eternity, the air about them began to warm, and their sweat began to pour forth more earnestly, making their journey more gruelling on the now slippery rock floor, as well as more offensive to their noses.

          When they came to the end, it came in the form of a steel runged ladder stretching out to the surface above.  At the top was a hatch with a wheel latch, much like the kind Bond had encountered in the older models of submarines. 

          Che Che quickly spun the wheel loose, and then opened the hatch with another grunt.

          After the dim light of the electric torch, the mid-day sun of Corsica was almost painful to his eyes, but the fresh air accompanying it nearly brought him to tears.

          They were at the edge of woods, not far from a game trail that ran up into the mountains above.

          Once closed, the black steel of the hatch blended back into the forest.  Bond doubted if he could find it again if it became necessary.

          Upon gaining the path, the two men were able to look down on the village of _Monte Paese, now the size of a child's toy castle off in the distance.  Bond could just make out the spire of the church from which their journey had begun._

          "So, where are we heading, _Mon Captain?" Che Che asked._

          "Somewhere near Vizzavona, where we shouldn't be seen, and no one will care if we are."

          After a short discussion they turned from _Monte Paese_, and began a long climb up the path into the _Haute Corsica.  _

* * *__

          The man, who'd watched both men enter the church from his own place of concealment in a doorway across the street, waited for an hour before venturing into the holy place.

          Upon finding it empty, he knew where they'd gone.  He scurried off to deliver his message to the foreigner who'd been so generous in the recent past.  It was such a small betrayal for so great a reward.


	10. A Funny Thing Happened on the Road to Vi...

**Chapter Eleven: A Funny Thing Happened on the Road to Vizzavona**

  
  


After the first few hours, Che Che began to sing as they walked, following the game trail steadily higher into the mountains. Bond's rough knowledge of Corsican was not enough to keep pace with the words, but from the few he could discern, is seemed to be a rather bawdy, traveller's tale, one which kept easy pace with their own footfalls. The other man's voice was pleasant enough, what the Corsicans would have described as a secunda, a midrange voice, so Bond let him continue undisturbed.

When Bond enquired, Che Che told him the music was known as paghjella, and was intended to keep people content while working on manual tasks. The songs were filled with high emotions, he said, often telling of seductions, or adventures beyond the menial world of shepherds and crop workers. Although he was nearly blind to its meaning, Bond let his mind drift with the music through much of the day's journey.

The air had become noticeably thinner, and the going had become more laboured. Steam rolled off of them as they ascended into the cooler arms of the Haute Corsica, billowing off into the cool mountain air.

At one point on the climb, there had been some rustling from the brush off to one side of the road. Che Che had raised one giant hand signalling Bond to a stop. The man placed a finger to his lips, and then silently drew an ancient looking Ruger. He then made a throwing motion with his free hand, and pointed to Bond.

James nodded, and silently knelt down to pluck a rock from the trail they'd been following. They'd seen an abundance of wildlife on their trek up the mountain, and when he cast the stone into the bushes at the side of the road, Bond was not disappointed.

The rabbit broke cover and began to dart away from them, searching amongst the scarce foliage for a new, more secure, hiding place. It hadn't made more than a half dozen steps, however, before Che Che's gun barked, and the animal fell. 

Che Che retrieved the brown and white bundle from the ground, and after trussing its feet with a string from his backpack, carried it like a woman's handbag in his left hand.

"It will allow us to conserve the food I packed," he informed Bond. "We'll need it tomorrow. The higher we go, the harder it's going to become to find game. It's easier when you're a shepherd, if all else fails, you still have a supply of milk to get you through."

His song silenced, Che Che filled his time catching Bond's occasional questions about the land they traversed, and sometimes pausing to pick some herbs, or in one case, berries along the trailside.

As the sun sank, both men had to pull jackets from their packs, as the cool breezes of the mountains became less than bearable.

"How much further are we going to make it today?" Bond finally asked when they paused for a water break.

Che Che took a few moments to assess where they'd come from, and then looking north, further up the path.

"There's a stream about half an hour away. There's a field there where we can camp tonight out in the open, which should be a treat for you. Early tomorrow, we'll reach some shepherd huts, and from there, Vizzavona is less than half a day's travel by foot."

Later that evening, Bond lay looking up at the unspoiled Corsican sky through the face slit of his sleeping roll. With no manmade lights to interfere, and the high, clear mountain air, the stars were brilliant and plentiful, almost dizzying in their magnitude. But the beauty stood opposed to the litany of dark thoughts that claimed his mind, not to mention the obtrusive snoring of the sleeping giant on the far side of the smouldering coals of their campfire. 

They'd refilled their water bottles in the stream when they'd first arrived, the water so cold it was hard to thrust a hand into it. There was more than enough deadfall, and loose brush about to start a serviceable fire, and Bond busied himself with the task. Although Che Che assured him the chances of their being disturbed was minimal, Bond still took care to avoid the use of any green wood or foliage, keeping the smoke from the fire to a minimum. Once they'd were prepared to turn in for the evening, he would make sure to douse the flames, and leave only the tinkers to give them what little comfort they could through the night.

As Bond addressed the fire, Che Che cleaned the rabbit in the stream, using a surgeon's deft hands to skin and gut the animal in matter of seconds. He stuffed the corpse's cavities with some of the herbs he'd collected along the way. There was a large pod bearing tree nearby that he claimed several huge, fan-like leaves from. These he drenched in the stream, and then wrapped tightly about the rabbit, securing them with a length of wire he'd taken from his pack.

The fire had begun to come to life by then. Che Che stripped some green branches from the pod tree and bowed them into a simple stand that he tied together with the other end of his wire, and then placed over the fire. The makeshift tripod held the rabbit suspended just above the flames.

"The givings of a well-spent childhood," Che Che explained with a shrug later, as they devoured the steamed rabbit sitting across from one another in the starlit night. Then, lying in their sleeping rolls, they talked for a while. Mostly it was Che Che, telling stories of his boyhood, and shepherding in these hills and mountains during his youth, when there were still bandits hiding in every nook and valley, and vendettas aplenty. As the giant's words became slower and more sleep-filled, he spoke of Marie-Claude, and of the plans they were making together. She wanted him to move to Bastia, to join a practice there, where the money and prestige of being a city doctor's wife could soothe her longings to escape the day-to-day doldrums of living in Monte Paese. He knew that Marc-Ange would not fight such a move, if he asked, but just the thought of the old man being disappointed in him was more than he was able to bear.

"And besides, as I've explained to her a thousand times, we owe something to the village. I grew up an orphan in Marc-Ange's home, and that entire community had a hand in raising me. Those children you see scuttling about in the street; I delivered more than half of them, usually in their own homes, without so much as a midwife by my side. Marc-Ange has told me he will fund the construction of a clinic, so the people of the countryside, and the surrounding villages can seek help as well. Not only will I serve as a doctor, but the flow of people coming to Monte Paese will boost trade, and help the entire village economically."

Not to mention, Bond thought to himself. A chance for Marc-Ange to widen his recruit base for the FLNC, and generate a tidy increase in Monte Paese's other economy, the one that dealt with arms and ammunition. 

"And what of Marie-Claude? Aren't you afraid of losing her?" he asked.

Che Che shrugged.

"She is Corsican. She may torture me for the rest of my life with her velvet abuse, but in the end, she will respect my wishes."

"You know, that kind of thinking, is enough to get you pillared in the West these days," Bond quipped.

There was relative silence for a few moments, broken only by the night sounds of the insects and animals about them. They both continued to look up at the glorious night sky. Finally, Che Che replied, already half-asleep.

"Then, I guess I'm happy to be in Corsica."

Now, with his pleasantly filled stomach, Bond lay awake with the crickets, his thoughts of Donn, and where this dance of theirs might take him. Once the team rendezvoused with him in Vizzavona and whisked him back to London, it would leave him in the same position as before. Donn would still be going on about his merry way, disrupting, and destroying Bond's life with abject glee. Who was to say Felix might not be the next target, or Tanner, Moneypenny, hell, even M himself? It was obvious they couldn't depend upon the IRA's assistance. Maybe now, with one "00" already near death, and certain to never return to active duty, M would be willing to send Bond after Donn. It would mean returning to Northern Ireland, and Ireland proper, places he never truly felt comfortable, never felt like he belonged, after the whole Smite affair.

He watched as the quarter moon rose, and then slowly etched a path across the sky, struggling to find a comfortable position for his sore ribs while lying on the cold, hard ground. It had been less than a week earlier he'd spoken to Felix about "down time" and now here he was again, bared to an emotional and physical core, his body's needs and misgivings peeled away like the shell fragments from one of his beloved three-and-a-third-minute eggs.

Somewhere during the night, he fell asleep, unable to set a mental agenda for the next day. The course of events would dictate themselves, and all he could hope to do was react with honour.

* * *

Che Che arose easily with the breaking sun the next morning. Bond stirred as he rolled and secured his bag, but the doctor saw no reason to disturb his difficult patient. The man's ribs needed time to heal, and here he was climbing about the hills like a goat. The least he could do was let the other man sleep for a while.

He drug a splayed hand through his hair, allowing the morning dew gathered there to help push it back from the course features of his face. There were places further up the path, and further upstream, where the water widened out, and he might be able to snag some fish, or at least gather enough berries, and nuts, to make a passable breakfast for the two of them. Taking fishing line and hooks from his bag, he regained the game trail and trekked further north, never intending to be gone more than a few minutes.

* * *

Bond awoke a few minuets later at 6:30 a.m. He still retained the unique ability to visualise a time as he fell asleep, and then awaken at almost that exact moment. It had served him well in the field over the years.

He was surprised to find Che Che gone; Bond was generally a nervous sleeper; the large man must have been very light on his feet to slip away undetected. Pinned to the man's backpack was a note in simple English that read, "GONE FISHING".

Bond chuckled, and began going about an amended version of his morning routine. The agonisingly slow push-ups licked at his wounded ribs, but the pain was becoming more bearable with every day. Still, by the time he'd finished with the leg lifts, and light callisthenics, he was bathed in sweat, as much from the pain, as from the exercise. He then stripped to his shorts and let the cold, morning air prick at his body like a hundred thousand needles hungry for blood.

Digging through his own pack, he found the washcloth, scant towel, and a tube of bath gel that he'd brought along. He then made his way over to the stream, which would be even more bracing with the sun just beginning to edge above the peaks to the east. It was one thing to step into a shower with the water scalding hot, or chillingly cold, but it was another to undertake what nature could dish out.

He dipped the cloth into the stream, and began to sponge bathe himself, working up what lather he could with the soap. He body screamed awake at the water's touch, and he was thankful for it. It would be much easier to forgo his morning coffee now. Bending down beside the stream, he cupped some water in his hands, and brought it to his mouth where he swished it about chasing away the greasy aftertaste of the rabbit from the night before, He then spat it back into the coursing water. Again, he cupped his hands, this time splashing the water against his face, washing away the last vestiges of sleep. He repeated this a few more times, dampening his hair, and finally working his scalp, face and neck with the soap.

He was shaking with the cold now, and what had been slightly painful, but invigorating, was becoming unbearable. A few more rinsing handfuls and he was done, working himself with the towel to get the damning water off his body before he froze to death.

Turning back to the fire, he found he was not alone.

Feale McCann squatted next to the remains of the fire from the night before. She'd tossed on some more dry brush, and was slowly stroking the flames back to life with sharp breaths and the prodding ministrations of a stick.

James Bond quickly looked to where his gun lay with his clothing in a neat pile behind her.

"Relax," she informed him. "If I had wanted to kill you…" She just shrugged and let the cliché hang in the air. "And don't look so surprised, it isn't exactly difficult to track you when your keeping company with Goliath."

Feale now gingerly stood on her injured feet, walked over to Bond's Walther and holster, and tossed them to him. He snagged it easily, and quickly strapped it on over his naked, goose-fleshed chest.

"So why are you here?" he asked, walking past her to where his clothes lay. He immediately began to dress, tempering himself to the chilling air.

"To warn you…and to let you know that you were right."

The last must have been very difficult for her to say. Theirs had been a love-hate relationship from the start, and as she voiced the words, she looked to the ground, avoiding his eyes like a little girl in a confessional booth.

"How so?" he prodded her along.

She crossed her arms defensively before her, and drew her lower lip between her teeth. Her beauty again struck Bond. She was wearing her combat fatigues with a thick khaki vest strapped over top, but unzipped to her waist. She looked up at him again, catching his appreciative glance, smiled, seemingly taking courage from it, and then began to speak.

"I went looking for Colleen as you suggested, to find out if it was true about Tom…" an emotional clutch here, but she quickly fell back into her rhythm. "She and her lap dog, Troy, had disappeared. Marc-Ange told me they'd said something about supplies and headed out yesterday in one of the Humvees. He was acting peculiar, I think on some level he knew that something was wrong, you having disappeared and all. So, I called St. Pete's myself, and spoke to Maelisa."

"And," he said.

"And you were right." No tears, no hysterics, Bond thankfully noted. She seemed to be going on a soldier's mental autopilot now with her short staccato sentences.

"We spoke for awhile. She'll be OK. We're good about taking care of our own."

Bond, fully clothed, and standing behind her now, placed his hands on her shoulders and gave them what he hoped was a reassuring squeeze. She turned, and looked directly up into his eyes, her own, vacant.

"You were right," this time without a hint of emotion. "You were right about almost everything. I did contact Peter when I found out you were coming."

"But why?" he asked.

"Because it was the only reason I'm here. Tom and Peter we're the one's that placed me here; I was to wait, years if necessary, until you arrived, then contact them."

"But what about Colleen and Troy, how does she fit into all of this? I find it hard to believe your story about Donn was just lies. I've been lied to by the best, and yours would have been a command performance."

She shook her head violently.

"There's still so much you don't know. Everything I told you about Peter, about what he did to me was God's truth."

* * *

As he knew it would, the stream widened out, and plateaued about two miles further up the trail. Che Che had to leave the path a ways into the shrub to reach the running water, but for him, all of this was a welcome return to the playgrounds of his youth.

He'd begun to cut into the brush at a diagonal from the path, hoping to make a short path to an old, favoured fishing hole, when the sound of voices came to him. Somewhere, further up the game trail, a man and a woman stood speaking in rapid French. Che Che silently thanked his natural instincts for moving quietly when in the maquis. Just as they'd surprised the rabbit the evening before, the two figures were oblivious to his presence.

Through a line of bushes, Che Che could make out the figure of Colleen, who was facing him, but the man with the peasant Corsican clothing with his back to Che Che remained a mystery. He struggled to identify the low voice, but at this distance, only the higher, Irish-lilted French of the woman came to him.

"There, you see. Moral questions always equate to financial terms. It's been one of the only great truths of my life. Make the job clean, and they'll blame it on the Englishman. Several people heard the two of them arguing the other night, and those who didn't, will say they were there anyway. By the time all of this is over, you'll be so rich that you'll be the one running Monte Paese. And believe me, my people will be happy to have the uncooperative, moralistic old windbag out, and someone more reasonable, someone who knows the value of power, in charge."

The unknown Corsican lifted his hand to her face, drawing it along the edge of her jaw line, across her neck, and then curved and cupped it about her breast. He mumbled something and the woman laughed.

"Oh, you'll have that as well. If you think you can handle it."

Another grumbled response.

"Very well, then. Just remember to bring me his eyes. I'd like to show them to the _Inglese_ before he leaves this sad veil of tears."

The man nodded and then turned, beginning to walk back down the path toward Monte Paese. Colleen watched him go for a few moments, and then turned north, heading further up into the mountains. Che Che swallowed his shock and disgust and pulled further away into the woods. He had a head start on the man, but he wanted to give Colleen more time to distance herself, and move further out of earshot. He quickly glided across the rough terrain, leaving no more for his passing than a rustle of underbrush.

Finally picking his spot behind a crop of trees, he waited for the confident footfalls of his former friend to come down the trail to him. When they arrived, Che Che stepped out into the early morning sunlight.

"Hello, Emil," he said. 

The other man started for a moment, but then quickly recovered.

"Che Che," he stumbled over the words, trying to vainly turn on the disarming smile that had charmed so many of the village girls when they'd been so much younger. "Thank God you are alright. Marc-Ange sent me up here to find you and the man, Bond, and bring you back. They captured this Donn last evening in the woods outside of du peaese. He's hanging from one of the chestnut trees as we speak, throat slit, and drained dry."

"Is that so?" the giant quipped.

"Quite," Emiliano continued.

"So, Marc-Ange sent you and Colleen up here to find us?"

Now, the man showed his first true signs of concern since turning on his beacon of a smile.

"Colleen?" he asked.

"Yes, I saw the two of you talking further up the path."

"Oh, yes. There's a whole army of us combing the trails for you, half the village is out. I'm surprised I'm the first you've run into."

"I'm sure of that," Che Che agreed with a laugh. Emiliano laughed with him, but he wore a puzzled expression beneath his joviality. "And now that you've found me, what next?"

"Once we've collected your English friend, we should head back to the village. But first, we'll need to let the others know I've found you."

Che Che nodded.

"Alright then, lead the way," with this, he swept one giant arm open palmed up the path, ushering his friend along."

Emiliano took a hesitant step forward. Che Che knew the man was at a grave tactical disadvantage. The giant had always been by far the stronger of the two, and Emil's only chance of overcoming him would have been to take him from behind. Now, the other man's only hope was to get to Colleen, and have Che Che outnumbered. As if suddenly realising this, the other man's feet began to fall faster now.

"So, how is Amelie? The boys?" he asked over the man's shoulder..

"They're well," he replied. "Although we hardly see little Curtuis any longer. He's either out with the flock, or running about with the other children. Sometimes, I think they get into more trouble than even we used to."

Che Che had been doubling over the fishing line again and again in his hands, listening to his friend's idle lies. 

"Oh, I doubt that," he replied.

The other man stopped.

"It's possible they might be able to hear us from here," Emiliano said, raising his cupped hands to his mouth to shout.

Che Che doubted Colleen would have heard him, but he couldn't take the chance. The fishing line had become a garrotte in his hands and he quickly wrapped it about his friend's throat from behind, inadvertently catching the other man's upraised fingers as he did so.

Being a doctor had cleared Che Che's mind of the misconception that a garrotte killed by cutting off oxygen to the brain. The trick of the weapon was speed and force, the object being to crush the trachea and then let the victim's own fractured airway finish him off.

"Better to let you die than to let them see you for the traitorous bastard you've become," he whispered into Emiliano's ear as he increased the pressure on the line.

Emil prolonged the battle with his fingers beneath the wire, but at the same time, he was unable to free himself to reach for the knife at his belt. Che Che's own hands were now bleeding where the line had cut into them, but he was oblivious to the pain, he had to finish things quickly. He turned his own back to Emiliano's, the garrotte now held by both hands over his right shoulder as if he was grasping a heavy sack. He then put his considerable muscle to the task, and pulled forward with his arms, taking the other man off his feet entirely. There were some sickening crushing sounds from the other man's throat and the body, which now lay across his own back, went limp and still.

Che Che wanted to be sick, and for a few moments, he thought he might be just that. The man had been a boyhood friend, one of his closest.  He'd even toyed with the idea of asking him to be best man at his and Marie's wedding. He fought back the nausea, as he stood there bent over, bleeding hands on knees, looking down into the brown Corsican dirt of the trail. 

Giving the body as brief a glance as possible, he hefted it, and carried it behind the bank of trees where he'd stood concealed earlier. There was little time for sentimentality, he knew, Colleen now had at least a fifteen minute head start. If he didn't catch up to her, and find out where she'd gone, he knew the roles of the hunter, and the hunted, would soon switch back over to their disadvantage.

He began to hurry up the trail; trying not to think of the body he'd left behind, and of the faces of that body's children. Che Che had to hope James would be all right left to his own devices for the time being.

* * *

Bond and Feale sat next to the rekindled fire; the former unaware of his new friend's life and death struggle only a few miles distant, the latter so wrapped up in her dark, emotional torrents she was barely aware of the fire before her and the man beside her.

"You have no idea how much he hates you, how far he's gone for his revenge. I was just another tool for him to drag you closer to him like a fly to a spider. Everything else, me, the baby, and now I'm certain, Tom, we were either useful, or we were emotional liabilities. The baby could never have been of any use against you; it could only have held Peter back, so it had to die. When he killed Tom, I'm sure he felt Pa had exhausted his usefulness. But me, he knew you would come to Marc-Ange sooner or later, and once he'd announced his intentions to your people, he knew you would seek me out. I was to be the staked goat that would draw you in, and the only reason I'm still alive, is because he thinks I'm still serving a purpose. You must realise, he has absolutely no intention of coming out of this alive. His whole life as been dedicated to ending yours, and he's going to scorch every inch of ground he treads until his goddam game is over."

Some of it made sense to Bond in an insane sort of way, but there were so many questions.

"So why not kill him, yourself? Certainly you've seen him by now."

She laughed in a high, nervous fashion that made Bond concerned for her own sanity. It was obvious she was in a rather fragile state.

"Oh, yes, I've seen him. He's here, so to speak."

"Well, you say you care about Marc-Ange, you say you care about me..."

"I do," she assured him. 

"Well then, kill him before he kills us, before he decides you've outlived your usefulness. Or, at least, help me to do it."

"I can't," she whimpered.

"And why the hell not!" Bond couldn't help but shout, the woman was infuriating, even more so than most.

"I...I love him." 

Bond started to reply to this, obviously enraged, but she cut him off. "He was the first person in my entire life who ever cared about me. If you could roll your father, mother, brother, and husband into one person, then you might be able to understand what Peter is to me."

Bond thought of telling her he'd never really known his own parents, and he hadn't tied any such anchor around his neck. But he let her continue on undisturbed in the same emotionless, droning tone as before.

"When we were both teenagers, he saved me once. Hell, he saved me a thousand times, but this time was different. I was about twelve, and just starting to grown into my body. There were two Albanian boys staying at the hostel, named Dashmir and Tie, and whenever I was around them, their eyes would follow me like two hungry wolves waiting for a lamb to stray too far from the flock. I was terrified of them, and told Pa as much, but they were two of the "special ones". The hostel was my home, though, and I guess it gave me a false sense of security. One day, I came out of a stall in the public privy, and the two of them were there, waiting for me. I was able to get off one good yell before they were on me. Tie slapped me hard enough to knock the scream from my lips, and then Dashmir stuffed a rolled sock in my mouth."

Bond watched her face as she spoke, not daring to interrupt. Wherever the story was taking her, he knew it was obviously important to her, and he knew if he attempted to stop her now, he would have an enemy for life.

"They had my undergarments off, and my skirt up so quickly, I never had a chance to use the basic defence moves I'd already been taught. The fact is, a twelve-year-old girl simply cannot contend with two seventeen-year-old boys, and I came to understand this the hard way.

Tie had hold of my arms from behind, and Dashmir was preparing to do what they had come for. Aside from when Peter and I would take baths together as small children, it was the first time I'd ever seen a man naked, and believe me, it left me with ill feelings for your sex for quite some time."

"When Peter came through the door at a dead run, neither of them were in a very good position to defend themselves. Peter had already been to Syria by then, and he acted quickly. In one motion through the door, he loosed a knife he had been carrying. It buried itself in Dashmir's neck. I was drenched in his blood, and he collapsed before me, exposed, and clawing at the knife like the dying animal he was. Tie did not have it so easy. He put my head in the crook of his elbow, and put his free hand aside my ear. He jabbered his broken English the whole time, keeping me between Peter and himself, making it clear he would break my neck if Peter tried to touch him."

"Peter just kept walking forward, smiling the whole time. He went to the body of Dashmir, stepped on the boy's head, and jerked his knife free of the corpse's neck. He never gave Tie the chance to think about whether he would make good on his threat to me. Tie was backed up against a wall, and Peter just walked up and smacked the Albanian's nose with the hilt of the knife. Tie's hands dropped from my head, and I ran from the bathroom and back to our section of the house. I heard about the rest of it later, from some of the other kids. Apparently, Peter choked Tie to death by shoving a severed piece of Dashmir's anatomy down the other boy's throat. They probably still talk about it at Saint Pete's. Up until the day I left, no boy would get within ten feet of me, and except for Peter, that was exactly the way I'd wanted it."

She saw Bond shaking his head slightly.

"In ways you won't let yourself understand, James. He is like a god. Peter works for the greater good. Most of what he has done, he has done for the betterment of my people. He gives them hope in a cause that seems so hopeless so often. He's a hero. I hate him for what he did to me… to my baby, but it's like being angry with God. If I were to kill him, I'd be killing the hope of the Irish people. I couldn't do that to them. What I feel, and what I want, mean nothing when compared to what he has done."

Bond never ceased to be amazed at what people with charisma could accomplish. Here was a woman he'd come to admire in a very short span of time, and yet, he never would have known she was a babbling fanatic on the inside. It made him sad, but at the same time, it gave him one more reason to hate Donn. She continued with her drivel, as if she were still trying to convince herself there was some logic hidden beneath the sand.

"When it's about the greater good, you forgive great men their shortcomings. You give them what they want in trade for what they do, or what they represent."

"So you would give him your life?" Bond asked, knowing it was useless to fight such hazy thinking.

"Yes," she answered.

"Would you give him my life?"

She paused to exhale, and then reached her hand over to hold his.

"There was a time when I'd have killed you myself, but I'm here now, aren't I?"

* * *

The Humvee was parked on the game trail about a hundred feet from where Che Che lay close to the ground, concealed in the long grass.

Troy stood outside the vehicle, a Colt M4A1 strapped over his shoulder, engaging in a conversation with a handheld radio. They must have ascended one of the other dozen or so trails that fed into the road to Vizzavona, and now lay waiting for Bond and him to come stumbling along. There was no sign of the woman, nor of the other man, Donn, whom James had spoke of, so Che Che was careful to stay alert, not wanting a second party to catch him blind sided. 

Finding himself out-armed and possibly out-manned, the giant knew the best strategy would be to return to the clearing and alert Bond of their company on the mountainside. Now, with the wolves driven from the herd, the Englishman would be safer back in Monte Paese. 

Che Che followed alongside the path, using whatever foliage and cover he came across to hide himself from the main trail. The sun was beginning to wear through the morning haze, and by the time he was approaching the spot where Emiliano's body should have been, the giant was sweating profusely and more than a little winded. Even so, it still made his skin prickle when he saw that Emiliano's body had mysteriously migrated from the bank of trees where it had been concealed to the middle of the road.

He broke cover and strolled over to his former friend's corpse. It lay on its back, arms extended, and legs crossed, in what was obviously intended to be a mock crucifixion. Before he could come to grips with what sort of sick individual could play with dead bodies, someone spoke from behind him.

"Che Che, why hath thou forsaken me?"

Recognising the voice, Che Che wheeled to face the speaker.

"You sick bitch," he spat at Colleen who was calmly holding a Colt of her own, its working end pointed with steady hands at his mid-section.

"Tsk, tsk," she muttered. "One should keep one's manners in the presence of a lady. And after all, aren't you the one who betrayed your friend here?"

He shook his huge, scarred head.

"You're the one who poured the poison in his ear, the man I grew up with was only guilty of having a weak mind and a light wallet. Now, look at him," he motioned back over his shoulder, feeling his own anger rising like a serpent in his belly and mind. "If you weren't a woman…"

"You'd what?" she chuckled. "Put me in my place? Now, that would be original."

She took the gun strap off her shoulder, and to his surprise, tossed it to the side of the road. Colleen then held her arms out to her sides, away from her body.

"There you are, all even. Now, you have the chance to be the hero. All you have to do is get by me, and you can run off and warn your little English friend so the two of you can scurry back to Papa Draco for protection."

She motioned with a waving hand for him to come closer, but he hesitated. She was right, he knew, all he had to do was disable her, and most likely the hand was won. But just her sheer cockiness put him on guard. Bandits in Corsica could still be honourable, but terrorists never were.

"Come on, Doctor," she goaded him. "A culchie like yourself shouldn't see anything wrong with slapping around a woman." There was a time when he might have looked upon her as a woman, but now she was just the enemy. It didn't matter how beautiful she was in her sleek black slacks, and matching pull over sweater, she was barely even human in his eyes.

Why was she trying so hard to prod him?

"For an dochtúir, you're putting way too much into this female thing. Come on, I heard about what you did to Bond, one of Her Majesty's best. Of coarse, that's nothing compared to what we're going to do to him. He'll wish you'd killed him. And don't worry, we're going to take care of that old plonker, Marc-Ange. And then, just as a reward, I think I'll give that little tart of yours to Troy as an after dinner treat."

That was it for his debating. Either she was going to kill him, or he could at least take a chance.

He rushed her, closing the distance with all the speed he could muster, arms outstretched to snag his tormentor's mid-section. It was his intention to crush her in his arms like a chestnut in a vice, but all he found was a knee that struck the bridge of his nose with a distinct cracking.

He screamed, falling back, grasping his shattered nose. His body responded, and tears filled his eyes, blurring his vision when he needed it the most.

"Let's see," she told him as she walked about him in small circles. "You know, I, too, had to learn a great deal about the human anatomy. Done right, it takes almost as much skill to harm people as it does to heal them, and I was an exceptional student. Let me see, that would have been a nasal fracture, with definite damage to the septum. Would you concur?"

Woman or not, Che Che had to accept he was in a battle for his life. He willed himself to his feet and came at her again.

There was momentary surprise in her eyes as he swung a huge, branch sized arm at her head, but she easily ducked beneath it and delivered a counter strike with her own right to his ribs. Her hit was almost surgical in its precision, her whole torso rotating into the open handed blow like a bell hammer.

He doubled up at the force of the strike.

"Fast for a big one, aren't ye?"

Before he could recover for another attack, she brought the heel of her hiking boot down on the side of his knee at a perfect 60-degree angle. Suddenly, the pain in his nose and ribs seemed like nothing but a distant plea for attention. He fell to the ground, hobbled and screaming.

"Now, then," she continued her dissertation with her dissection. "I'd have to say that would be a torn anterior cruciate ligament. I hear it's very painful." 

Somehow, through the suffering his mind kept reeling, attempting to make some sense of what was happening to him. This woman fought like no woman, or for that matter, any man, he had ever seen, or heard of. Still a superstitious Corsican at heart, he fleetingly wondered if she were some sort of demon. To see such speed, and such force, exerted from such a small and attractive frame. He had always known the difference between a good fighter and a losing one was the degree of willingness a person had to cause damage to another human being. Not only were her blows coming without hesitation, but they were falling with great skill and exuberance as well. 

These would be the last thoughts he had that would be strung together coherently, for the next blow came to his lower back.

"Spinal cord trauma," the bitch's voice came from somewhere distant, somewhere above and beyond the agony. The Corsican dirt was pressed to his face, he could taste it in his mouth, and it seemed like a good and welcome thing to die like this.

Left radius, right ulna, fourth and fifth right side ribs, the litany went on, droning from her mouth like a first year human physiology course. But he was oblivious to her torture now. The last words his ears heard were "temporal plate with possible epidural haematoma," but by then his mind was not listening any longer. He was thinking of Marie-Claude and the faces of their unborn children.

* * *

  
  


Obviously, the talking had helped Feale some. Maybe with weeks, and months, he could get through the programming so deeply ingrained in her mind, but James Bond didn't have the luxury of time. He needed information, not stories and feelings, or he, and those close to him, we're going to die.

"So, where does Colleen fit into all of this? Is she one of the Saint Pete kids as she claims?"

"Hmmm. Yes, she was," Feale once again had that distant sound in her voice, as if she were tuned into some far off radio signal. Her eyes were blank. "Would it surprise you if I told you we were once lovers?"

Her timing took him aback a little, but it truly didn't shock him. He'd noticed the appraisals, and the comfortable familiarity the two women had. Surprised, no. Disappointed a little, yes. He was rather old fashioned when it came to such things.

"Not really," he answered, needing to move the conversation along. "I've seen the way she looks at you. And at me, when I'm near you."

It was moving now from morning toward afternoon, and Che Che should have been back some time ago. Something was wrong, he had to get this blasted woman to stop playing games and spit out whatever it was she knew. 

A smile now passed her lips, and her eyes finally turned back to meet his, as if the distant broadcast had concluded.

"That's very intuitive of you, James. It's too bad you didn't take it one step further; you could have saved us all so much trouble. You have no idea how far he would go to get his revenge."

"What do you mean?" he asked dumbfounded, and with more than a little anger creeping into his voice.

"I mean that Colleen is Peter. He, rather she, has been here in front of you the entire time, laughing at you."


	11. Crawl into My Parlour

Chapter Twelve: Crawl into my Parlour 

Donn looked down at the shattered body of the giant with satisfaction. He hadn't been able to cut loose for quite some time, and it felt so good to get down in the dirt and get his hands soiled. The rebirth that had begun with the killing of the men at the Federal Transfer Facility was now complete. Although this new vessel that had been carved out of his flesh was somewhat limited, it had performed quite well in the field.

It had never been his intention to survive this final adventure. Once Bond was dead, he'd assumed he was going to die as well. Either the Sein Fenn, or the Brits, would get to him and exact their own revenge. But now, with things entering the endgame, he wondered if survival was possible. There was no one left that knew of Colleen, with the exceptions of Feale and Julian, and that was easily cured. 

Of the scenarios he'd played out in his scheming, he'd personally hoped for the one in which Bond didn't flee _Monte Paese. He would have slaughtered Marc-Ange and Feale before Bond's tortured eyes. There was justice in this approach, let the bastard see how it feels to watch the murder of his loved ones. But he knew, no matter how slow he rendered the living flesh from their bodies, no matter how much they screamed, and how many tears escaped Bond's sorrowed eyes, there could be no way to make him feel the pain of the eight-year-old boy he, himself, had been._

Even though he'd shed that child's skin when he'd become Donn, and shed it again to become Colleen, the anger and pain he'd felt still defined him.

He flexed his new hands before him. It had been nearly five years since the last of the bandages had come off, and yet, the skin and musculature still felt alien to him, as if he were literally walking around in someone else's body. There had been a total of five major operations, and then a few cosmetic ones after that.

His chief surgeon, a sadist of a Thai named Chansue, was the best in his field, his team having performed thousands of sex change operations in the deviant, sexual underworld of Bangkok. The man was nearly drooling at the prospect of having a client with the money, and determination, to perform a complete transformation.

"Most of the barriers of the flesh have been broken for decades," he'd explained with his chipped accent. "The only things restraining plastic surgeons from creating perfection are finances, time, and a patient willing to persevere. If you're able to invest heavily, and endure the pain, I can make you as beautiful a woman as you desire. Your frame would make the perfect palate, and I, quite honestly, am the perfect artist."

But Donn had already known this. He'd been researching his transformation for years, looking for the best doctor, the best place, and the best time to have his operation. He was a millionaire some twenty times over, and unlike the other poor souls who sought out Dr. Nantarika Chansue, he wasn't some sexually confused creature looking to appease his psyche; he was a sane, focussed man with a plan.

Chansue had trained in England as a surgeon, and his mastery of the language was always impeccable, but Donn became increasingly sickened by the man's idle prattling. For months he had to tolerate the latter's babbling on as if he were Michelangelo on his back in the Sistine Chapel, and not a bone cutter with another man's blood covering his hands. Chansue talked while Donn was in prep, he talked while he was on the table, he talked in post-op; it didn't take long for the assassin to begin to associate the man's voice with pain.

The doctor's dialogues consisted of a vast range of topics; everything from how if he were having his operation performed in the West he would have to go through nearly a year of psychological evaluation to determine if he was mentally fit enough to make the choice for himself, to the nesting habits of the birds of the West Indies.

The doctor's clinic, and waiting rooms, had small air freshener boxes mounted high in the corners of the ceilings. The scent changed on a monthly basis. When he began his consultations with Chansue it had been apple blossom, it then moved to pine, then sandalwood, cherry, cinnamon, etc. Chansue had noticed him looking at one of the devices during a check-up and had begun one of his dissertations while Donn gritted his teeth and bore through. 

"It keeps the smells of the city at bay," the doctor had explained. "Patients also often prefer to forget they are in a doctor's office in the middle of a pit of humanity, they prefer something pastoral." Donn wanted to tell him that no matter how much Lilly of the Valley he pumped into the room, he could still smell the antiseptic taint of alcohol, and at least the smell of the city was something real that people could hold onto. But maybe, most of Chansue's patients preferred to be deceived, they wanted illusions. By the time he'd counted twelve scents, Peter was no longer a man.

Here, within the early afternoon heat, he recalled his final visit to the good doctor. They'd gone through a basic physical, at the end of which, Chansue stood back and appreciated him, as he would a painting, or more appropriately, a sculpture. 

"Just enough imperfection to be perfect," he'd proclaimed, clapping his hands together a single time. "Is there a chance I might ask you for a favour, Miss..."

"Moran," Donn had answered in his hormone-laced, husky, feminine voice, using the name that matched the passport now resting firmly in his handbag. The passport _was_ perfection, already adorned with the counterfeit stamps of a half dozen countries. "What sort of favour?"

"Just a photo of the finished work, to complete your file," the doctor was nearly as giddy as a schoolgirl with his new creation.

Donn was aching to return back to _Tech Duinn, he'd been gone for almost a year, so far away from his beloved Ireland, the source of his inner strength. And yet he forced a smile._

"Anything for you, Doctor," he sighed.

The doctor quickly went to his desk, and began to fidget in one of the drawers, apparently digging for his camera.

When he finally pulled it out, he looked back up to his patient, only to discover a pistol with a silencer was staring at him with its cyclopean black eye.

In a crowning, blissful moment for the woman who had been Peter Sullivan, he was able to watch the thin, superior smile fall from the doctor's face.

He held a finger to his lips in the international symbol of "shush", and then motioned for the doctor to sit in his Hag Signet elk skin office chair, which Donn knew had cost more than 2,300 pounds thanks to one of the doctor's babble sessions. With the smell of artificial peaches hanging heavy in the air, Donn removed, from his handbag, several feet of wire cord he'd brought along for just this occasion. He found one of the early joys of being a woman was carrying a purse; here was not only a comfortable resting place for his passport, and his other pieces of false identification, but the perfect hiding place for a snub-nosed firearm and silencer, not to mention a bevy of other items peculiar to his profession. 

In a few moments, he had Chansue trussed to the chair by his arms, neck, and legs.

"Is it too tight?" he asked.

"Yes," the doctor croaked through his compressed throat.

"Good," he snipped, and then paused. "That is a mighty fine chair you have there, nice and solid. Worth every pence, if you don't mind me saying. She isn't going to break, so I'd stay still if I were you, too much undue movement and I'm afraid you'll choke yourself, and wouldn't that be a pity?"

The doctor's ever-present grin had been replaced by a grimace of pain.

"What do you hope to get out of this?" he gasped in quick breaths. "Your money is already gone, I keep nothing here."

"Not exactly true, Doctor," Donn told him, still trying to come to grips with the nuances of his new throat and voice. "I'm going to hold down the button on your page box in a moment and I'd like you to call your staff into the office. Any melodramatics, and unpleasant things are sure to follow, understood?"

When the two women who comprised the day-to-day staff of the clinic entered the office, Donn efficiently greeted both of them with a bullet to the forehead.

With this, Chansue began to struggle in the chair, he also attempted to scream, but his constrained windpipe began to close up with the shifting of his body, and the tightening of his bonds. Donn watched with amusement as the man managed to tip over his chair.

When the assassin came over to look down upon the surgeon on the floor, Chansue's face had already begun to turn a disturbing shade of purple, and his eyes were rolling back into his head.

"Not yet, Doctor," he grunted as he lifted the heavy, black leather chair upright. He pulled at the wire across the man's neck, loosening it slightly. "Now, I'm willing to let your breath, but there will be no more attempts at shouting."

Donn stood on a table in the corner of the room, and smacked the air freshener from wall like a fragrant piñata. He pulled the peach scented cartridge from the corpse of the machine, and then, using some duct tape he removed from his handbag (God, he loved that thing!), he thrust the stinking pod into the doctor's mouth, and quickly taped the man's mouth closed about it.

"Is the air fragrant enough now, Channy Boy?" he asked. The man's eyes had swum back down from up in his skull, and he was staring in wide-eyed horror at Donn's beautiful face.

"Well, now that the preliminaries are over, where did you keep those scalpels?" 

The doctor began to struggle in vain again, his mind swimming with the potential atrocities to come. But his thoughts didn't really come close to the sickening truths of it.

Peter O'Sullivan, known as Donn, and now as Colleen, opened a side closet and removed an operating smock.

"Wouldn't want to get blood on my dress," he explained. "It's an Austin original. Oh, and never mind about the scalpels, I remember just fine where they're kept."

The doctor's muffled, but pleasant smelling, screams had gone on for quite some time.

On his way out, Donn casually made a pile of Nantarika Chansue's patient files and made a small blaze using some of the good doctor's denatured alcohol, he then shot the transsexual patient waiting in the next examining room, and the four people, who were in various stages of transformation, waiting in the front room.

He had let the memories roll as he made his way back up the road to where Julian would be waiting. He'd left Che Che alive, though barely, but would need help hauling the body back up to the shepherd hut. 

With poor Emiliano collecting fly eggs in the Corsican sun, he was going to be denied the pleasure of watching Bond squirm when he realised his father-in-law was dead. The little, smelly, tree trunk of a man had been useful, and it was a shame he wouldn't get to play his final scene in their sad, sad tragedy. There was still time to send Julian down to the village to finish Emiliano's assignment, but Marc-Ange would be on guard now. He was not a fool, and with the two of them having been gone for so long, he would be suspicious if Julian popped in for a visit. For as backward of a people as these Corsicans were, they were far from naive, and they knew how to protect themselves. 

No, he decided. Maybe Emiliano could have strolled through the door with a laugh and a smile, but Draco would have twenty men waiting at the front gate for Julian to stumble up with nothing more than a weak story. At least fate had provided him with Che Che, and although he'd be a poor substitute, Donn would take some pleasure in making a spectacle of torturing the giant to death once he'd softened up Bond some.

He'd been planning the evening's festivities for twenty years, and he intended to enjoy every cold bite of it.

Donn had spent a lifetime learning to torment people physically. Billy Fincher had been the first to suffer his hand, but he was far from the last. There was a long and rich history of torture, and he'd sought out every expert, every text, he could find on the subject. Each victim was a practice canvas for what he would someday do to Mr. James Bond. And yet, whatever pain he'd inflicted was nothing compared to the suffering he'd endured at the hands of Chansue.

He'd studied Bond for sometime, choosing his plan of attack to suit the man. While performing some work for the "new" Russia, his employers had been more than happy when all he'd asked for in return for his services were copies of the old SMERSH and KGB files on one annoying, ageing member of M-16. They were so encouraged by his interest in a man who'd been such a thorn in their own sides that Donn had the impression it wouldn't have taken a lot of convincing to have them volunteer to bankroll his coming mission. But any such pandering would have destroyed the purity of his revenge, disturbed the savouring of his dish.

The "files" had ended up being three suitcases of documents, detailing hundreds of missions involving the man, both for, and against. He'd read of the young Bond's exploits in the Royal Navy, of his rise in M-16 to the elite "00" section, where the main prerequisite seemed to be one's willingness to kill for Queen and country. Donn had perused with interest the episode of the renegade Soviet agent Le Chiffre, and the Russians' reams of documentation regarding the "turning" of the amnesia-stricken Bond and the failed attempt to send him back to England on a suicide mission of their making. There was a list of Soviet citizens who were believed to have been killed by 007, and when he'd tallied them up, there had been a total of 127. 

These were small tidings when compared with Donn's own resume, but when taking into account that almost all of these had been agents and soldiers of the USSR, trained, armed, and able to offer resistance, the number became more impressive. Donn's victims had often been aristocrats, politicians, policemen, and regular men, women, and children. They thought of themselves as soldiers, but the cold truth was that you didn't grab headlines by fighting other soldiers; making the general public believe they and their family could be the next corpses to be dragged from the rubble generated the fear the Sein Fenn needed. 

But the primary focus of his attentions hadn't been on body counts, but instead on the personal aspects of the man behind them. Here was Bond's address in London, details on all of his known acquaintances, both professional, and personal. There were also the agent's daily routines while staying in London, and while on assignment. Donn now knew where he shopped, where he dined, and what he ate, he knew where he took his dates, where he played golf, went skiing, and where he went on holiday. There were photos of Bond's Bentley and detailed maps of the routes the man took on his long, leisurely drives into the English countryside.

It had been easy to find what he was looking for. He needed vices, he needed weaknesses to exploit, and Bond's lifestyle provided these in spades. He smoked far too much, drank like a borderline alcoholic, preferring harder liquor over beer, ales, and wines, he gambled well, and often, and most intriguing of all, he used women like an addict uses heroin.

Aside from his brief marriage, 007 seemed to have a commitment problem. The women in his life came and went quickly, and if the number of relationships the Russians had documented were accurate, the man's feminine conquests would run a neck and neck race with his prolific output as a murderer.

SMERSH attempted to exploit this weakness with a Russian girl named Romanova, but they chose a poor vessel for their poison, and she turned in Bond's arms. But their failure did little to deter Donn; he was convinced the path to the man's moral and physical destruction was through sex.

Although Bond had demonstrated an ability to physically intimidate women, he was soft to their needs. The Soviets' profilers attributed this to his having been raised by his aunt, without a strong male role model in his early youth. They sited a "broken wing" complex, in that he was attracted to women in trouble, women he could help mend both morally and physically.

Donn's early thoughts had been to use Feale as his angel of death. Donn knew he had to get close to Bond, had to gain his trust and confidence, if he were to cause the slow, painful death he desired. He never gave a second thought to sacrificing his own love, his adopted "sister", to his cause, but then the bitch had to go and get pregnant. Bond was hardly going to run after a woman with a distended belly, so Donn had remedied the situation. When Feale lost her senses, afterward, he knew her role in the master plan was to be peripheral at best.

Besides, the use of a woman to strike at Bond confronted him with two great disadvantages. The first was there was no guarantee his efforts would pan out any better than the Russians' had. He needed someone who would not fall in love with the man, not allow sentimental feelings to get in the way of dragging the proverbial knife across the bastard's throat when the time came.

Secondly, he was robbing himself of what he needed the most. Donn was unwilling to concede the kill to someone else, even Feale. It wasn't going to be enough to pull the trigger, he wanted to be the one to wrap his fingers around the other man's life, as well as his throat, and strangle the will to live from his lifeless frame. He wanted to play the role of the _femme fatale_ in his little production, and the only thing in his way was his sex.

That was where Nantarika Chansue had entered the equation, and where Peter Sullivan, the man, had exited.

Donn literally shivered under the Corsican sun thinking of what the little bastard had done to him, to his manhood. Not to mention the repulsion he felt at having lived as a woman for more than half a decade. 

After Bangkok, he'd returned home to _Tech Duinn, to stare at the reminders of the life he'd shared with Feale through a woman's eyes. He'd told Tom of his plans before leaving for the Orient, and the older man had been understandably disturbed and repulsed. But as any good parent would do, he supported him in his decision. Slowly, Tom helped Colleen Moran work her way up quickly within the IRA, and when the two of them suggested approaching a relatively forgotten Capu in Corsica as a possible ally, and his small village as a potential expansion of their terrorist network, the powers that be had snapped at the bait._

The last couple of years had been especially brutal, and also fulfilling. As his people were put into place, including Feale, he began the seduction of Marc-Ange, knowing Bond would eventually turn to the old Capu for help once he realised he was being hunted. It took the awkward, old man months to come on to him. But after enough blatant flirting, and blunt approaches, Draco had finally laid his stubby little hands on Dr. Chansue's handiwork, and breathed his gentle, garlic-laced endearments into Colleen's accepting ears.

The memories had kept him company on the long trek back up the mountain to where Julian Troy awaited him with the Humvee.

"Julian," he called out in a woman's voice that still sounded alien to him. "You'll never guess whom I ran into."

* * *

It took Bond a while to get over the initial shock. The monster that had killed Sam had been an arm length away from him, sleeping in the room down the hall from his. So many things began to fit into place as Feale began to explain the little she knew, and for the first time, the depths of the other man's hatred, and obvious insanity, became clearer to him. The time during which Donn had been out of circulation, his knowledge of 008's movements, the territorial behaviour Colleen demonstrated when around Feale.

"You know he's mad, of coarse?" Bond said when her words were done.

Feale shrugged.

"James, it really doesn't make a difference what I think, he's controlled everything up until now. That whole adventure last evening, the fight in the woods, it was all planned. He knew his men would die. If I understand it correctly, you were supposed to get close to me, develop feelings, and then I was supposed to die as well."

"He told you this?"

She looked away, embarrassed.

"Some, the rest I figured out. To a degree, I was being played also, and was willing to do it, up until I found out about Tom."

Another piece fell into place in Bond's mind. He hadn't killed Bond immediately because he wanted to play with his victim, like a cat torturing a bird. Colleen gave him the opportunity to be up close, to watch Bond squirm under each misery as they were piled on.

"He didn't intend to have anyone live, he was going to kill us all; you, me, Marc Ange…"

Feale nodded.

"But you last."

"Che Che," he added, his concern growing for his tardy friend. "Feale, I have to get moving, see if I can find where our doctor friend has got off to."

The Irish woman stood up, re-cradling the rifle in her arms.

"Well, let's go then."

Bond shook his head.

"I need you to head back to _Monte Paese and tell Marc-Ange exactly what you've just told me."_

She looked at him as if he were mad.

"Jamesy," she told him flatly. "I'm afraid you're confused about a few things here. The first is that although he may appear to be a cuddly teddy bear to you, if I tell Draco I've been lying to him about my purpose for being here, that his lover is really a man, and I'm part of elaborate plot to kill him as well as many people he holds dear, I'll be fertiliser for next year's crops. Second, I do care about you, James, but I didn't just come up here to warn you, I came to kill that bastard myself."

That was enough for Bond, it seemed every time a woman went with him seeking revenge, they ended up dead.

"You can tell Marc-Ange any damn thing you want, as long as it gets men up into these hills to find Donn and bring him down. Who's going to stand a better chance with him, the two of us, or a battalion of cut throat Corsicans who know these hills better than God?"

"So why don't I help you find the doc, and then we can all go back together and you can tell him yourself?" she chipped back.

The woman was daft.

"If we travel together, there's a greater risk that neither of us would make it back. If something has happened to Che Che, and he takes me, then maybe you'll make it back in time to send in the proverbial calvary. If he's waiting back along the trail for us, maybe I make it through later. Either way, we double our chances if we separate. I'm not interested in being the one to kill him. Vengeance costs, I'll be happy just to see Marc-Ange's men drag Donn's body from the _maquis."_

It took a few more minutes of arguing, but Feale finally accented to return to _Monte Paese. _

Bond assembled his own gear, and the two of them kissed briefly, almost passionless, before heading off in their opposite directions.

* * *

Feale was right about one thing, Bond knew. Although Che Che may be able to move like a cat through the _maquis,_ he left a trail like a herd of elephants.

It was nearly three o'clock by the time he came to the river where the giant had fished. He located the other man's gear, and even the fish that had been cleaned and packed in the ferns. The catch was no longer cold, and Bond could hazard a guess they'd been out of the water for more than a few hours.

He picked up Che Che's trail again, and followed it back toward the road. Emiliano's body hadn't been touched, at least by men, but Bond was repulsed at what a few hours with the Corsican sun and wildlife could do to a corpse. He traced the movements of the two men in the dirt of the road, and could make out the path of their struggles.

He guessed it was fair to say Emiliano had been a Judas in their midst back at _Monte Paese_, and something he'd done had given himself away to Che Che. Bond's heart dropped, as a few feet away, the remnants of another struggle told an entirely different story. The blood had soaked into the dirt, and dried, but there was little doubt his friend had taken quite a beating, and from the bloodstains scattered about, he'd certainly lost a dangerous amount. 

The other set of prints was smaller, lighter. Che Che had been a very adept fighter, and yet from all evidence, Donn had butchered him. Bond reached into his vest and removed the Walther. Its simple weight was reassuring in his hand.

They had done little to cover their trail, 007 easily followed the marks from where the body had been dragged, and loaded into the back of what could have only been a Humvee, with the width of the tire treads. They were attempting to lure him into following them, and they didn't care if he knew it.

If he were to stick to the simple line of reasoning he'd fed Feale earlier, at this point, he'd have turned around and headed back himself, returning later with the calvary. But the words had been just that, words, and they had accomplished their goal.

As he'd done a hundred times in the past, he was willing to put his own training, his own mind and body, against whatever this maniac was willing to throw his way. Bond didn't care to stay under the cover of the roadside; if they lay waiting for him ahead, it certainly wasn't their intention to shoot him from around a bend. Donn was casting a net for him, rather than spearing him outright; he wanted Bond alive for now, and certainly knew he was coming.

He walked up the middle of the road, following the tread marks higher and higher into the mountains. His face was burning, now, and his stomach continuously clenched and rumbled, reminding him of the fish he'd left back at the stream, but these pains only kept him company on his trek, keeping him awake and alert to his surroundings in the thinning air.

He passed by one of the ever present, hillside graveyards, running a hand over the simple, hard rock markers as he went by. They were pale cousins to the monuments Toussaint_ had pointed out to him on their way into __Monte Paese. Perhaps, he thought, the higher one went, and the scarser the materials, the less grandiose the graves became. But the effort just to dig into the solid rock of the mountainside still spoke loudly of these people's respect of their dead, and their elders._

A web that had once stretched all the way to Houston had now contracted and drawn tight about a few hundred metres as James Bond rounded a bend in the road and was presented with a rough, adobe shaped shepherd's hut. It had been built from slabs of sedimentary rock, cut from the mountain itself. Simple and small, it resembled a house a child might construct from building blocks, with four slabs for walls and then a block across the top, with generations of mud and straw mortaring the cracks.

Although not currently on hand, the Humvee's tracks had rested here for some time. Bond took care now in his approach, grasping his gun, holding it alertly at his side. If time hadn't been an issue, he would have lain low, waiting for the other players to show their hands, but he had no idea what Che Che's condition might be. The death of the father had weighed on Bond for years, he would be damned if he was going to let the son's face be added to his conscience's nightly roll call of those he'd sacrificed.

Still allowing himself a few minutes reconnoitre, he lingered outside the structure, listening and watching for any signs of occupation. There were none. It was possible, he knew, that Julian and Colleen had used this as only a temporary station before moving on, but Bond doubted it. They were either laying in wait somewhere nearby, or looking for him.

His one trump card was the knowledge that Feale was on her way back to _Monte Paese. If he were captured, Donn would want to take his time with his new play toy before breaking it. There might be time for Marc-Ange to do something._

He didn't even allow himself the thought Feale might be captured, or killed, herself. Nor did he give play to the persistent possibility she was still performing a part in Donn's scheme, and her warning, and willingness to return to _Monte Paese, were just well rehearsed scenes in Donn's little play. If either of these came to light, he was most likely dead._

The clear mountain air grew a little fouler as he came to the opening to the shelter. The stench from inside the hut was musky, and spoke of a dozen generations of goats and their shepherds. He allowed his eyes a few moments to adjust to the shadowed light, and then entered.

The structure was about six by eight metres, and the ceiling was just slightly higher than Bond's head. There was a rough table with two matching chairs and, standing out from its primitive kinsmen, was a metallic chair, shining new in the dim light. Behind the table, on the farthest side of the room from the door, was what appeared to be a bundle of rags. Other than this, the room was bare aside from a scattering of leaves, small branches, and the aforementioned smell.

He quickly made his way over to the rags, and rolled them over to reveal the battered form of Che Che. The man was breathing so shallow that Bond had to feel for a pulse to verify he was still alive. Removing the pack from his back, Bond set it on the dirt floor next to the other man's crumpled figure.

He removed a small plastic medical kit, snapped it open, and fished about for the ammonia packets nestled inside. His back now to the door, he waived the pungent inhalant beneath his friend's nose. The other man shuddered, but did not awaken. There was an involuntary cough, which brought forth a trail of spittle from the man's mouth. The spittle was stained a deep crimson, and Bond feared the amount of internal damage Che Che had taken. His medical kit was as useless as a bandage to a decapitated man. The doctor needed one of his own, and far better facilities than a ramshackle shepherd's hut. 

There were no windows in the hovel, so sunlight filtering in through the door was the sole source of light. Bond realised his defensive _faux paux__ too late, as a shadow fell across the wall behind Che Che's body._

He whirled, and started to reach for the PPK, which now lay on the ground next to his pack, but was halted by a heavily Irish-laced voice.

"None of that, now, Mr. Bond."

Julian Troy filled the doorway, his long locks hanging down loosely from his head like a blonde caul, one arm casually resting on the edge of the opening, the other wound about the strap of the rifle which was calmly levelled at Bond. He was obviously enjoying himself, a huge grin painted across his thin facial features, his blue eyes lit with mischievous flame.

"To your feet, now. Slowly."

Bond did as he was told, strategically debating the odds on his next move.

"Now, throw your gun into the far corner," Julian's voice was calm and modulated. If nothing else, he was experienced and well trained, and Bond again complied with the instruction.

"Very good, now be a good, old man and have a seat in the metal chair."

He knew he could not afford to become restrained, if he was to do anything, now was the time.

Holding his arms away from his sides, his palms open, Bond took a slow deliberate step toward Julian.

A flummoxed look crossed the other man's face; this obviously wasn't in the script.

"Sit your arse down in the chair while you still have one!" Troy shouted.

"Go f*** yourself," Bond snapped back.

Giving him little time to act, Bond took several more steps forward, closing the distance between them. 

"How will Donn take it when he found out you chipped his new china? I wouldn't want to be wearing your shoes if you get his panties in a bunch."

The last bit shocked the other man. Feale was true after all; Bond wasn't supposed to know about Colleen's dirty little secret. 

Taking advantage of the lapse, Bond closed the remaining distance between them, and then using his open palm, slapped Troy hard across the face.

"What are you going to do about it?" Bond shouted at the confused man. 

Before he could respond through words or actions, Bond slapped him again, this time from the other side. Suddenly, all of the frustration of the past week, the inability to strike out, or even defend himself against an invisible enemy began to surface. His anger now had a face, and he was making that face pay with a barrage of stinging blows.

James Bond stepped to the side of the outstretched rifle, grasped the barrel with both hands, and then shoved it hard back into the Irishman's sternum. His balance gone, Julian stumbled backward, out into the Corsican sunlight, landing awkwardly, his own rifle back-checking him.

Julian Troy screamed as the weapon struck him across the spine. He attempted to reach his feet, but Bond charged forward, kicking him squarely in the middle of his face with the ball of his foot. The other man fell back across his weapon again, this time blissfully unconscious and unaware of the pain.

"Bravo, 007," a deep, feminine voice said from just beside him. Bond had been so wrapped up in the adrenaline rush of the fight, he hadn't even noticed Colleen's approach. As he turned, there was a small pricking on his exposed left arm.

She stood before him, and for the first time, Bond was able to truly appreciate the work that must have been put into her. She was amazingly beautiful, almost like a sculpture. A sculpture that was holding a syringe in its hand.

His head swam quickly, and he took a step toward his tormentor, hands outstretched to throttle the life from her chiseled body.

She backed away, and he groggily stumbled over his own feet, crashing to the ground.

As he lay there, his consciousness fleeting, he felt her kneeling over him.

"Flights of angels, James Bond," she breathed warmly into his ear, and then Colleen, who had been Donn, who had been Peter, playfully licked his earlobe. "Flights of angels."

* * *


	12. Spider to the Fly

**_ SEQ CHAPTER \h \r 1_****__****_Chapter Thirteen: Spider to the Fly  
  
  
_**

James Bond's consciousness drifted in and out; a series of mental and physical snapshots.

Fade in.

There were voices, and there were words involved, but Bond's mind seemed incapable of stringing the latter together.  The verbal soup continued to bombard him; disturbing the unconsciousness he so desperately wished to return to.  He said something to make the voices cease, but somewhere between his mind and mouth was a virtual fantasyland of might-have's and could-have-been's where the words were lost.

The voices continued unabated.  He forced his eyes open, and was greeted by a fish-eyed lens view of the inside of a dirt floored, stone walled shelter.  It was vaguely familiar, but he couldn't remember why he was there, and really didn't care to try.  

He was sitting, which came as a surprise to him, he'd never really been able to sleep sitting straight up, something which had ably put to the test back during his days at Eton during a first year philosophy course he'd taken.  What was the name of the blasted professor?  Welby?  Wellington?  The old bastard had been quick with the switch; that much came back to him with little difficulty.

He could feel a trail of cool spittle, which had drooled down his chin from his mouth and was now drying in an uncomfortable patch on his face.  Bond made to swipe at it with his cuff, a very non-gentlemanly move that would have certainly been rewarded with a stern whack from good ol' Welch.  That had been it, Professor Welch.  However, to his surprise, he couldn't raise his arm to his face.  He tugged at his hands, but they had been tied behind him.  What the hell was the old loon Welch up to, tying his hands to his chair?

He lolled his head about once more, having nearly succumbed again to the sea of grogginess.  This wasn't Eton, these were those same dirt floors and stonewalls that had greeted him a moment before, and had been forgotten just as quickly.

He'd been drugged.  

          The voices droned on, and on.  There was a rhythm to them if you really tried to catch it, an Irish cadence that rocked back and forth in a seesaw manner.  He was trying to focus, trying to listen, but the rhythm was stronger than the words themselves, soon he was drifting.

The only unsettling thing was that the damn dog would not stop lapping at his hands, but this too, was not enough to tie him to his body.

Fade out.

Marc-Ange sat alone at the battered table in his kitchen, where just a few nights before he'd eaten sausage with James joking about the Capu's new, happier life here at _Monte Paese._

The same knife was in his hand, but now it's blade was digging at the wood surface of the table as if it were attempting to rut out a knot, or some other imperfection.  There were sounds of activity from the street, but instead of the sounds and smells of the preparation of a feast, sprinkled with the laughter of children, there were the roars of engines, and the shouts of men, as his own hunting party was readying to leave.

"The bitch," he muttered under his breath in his native Corsican tongue, while thrusting the blade angrily, again and again.  Proud tears dripped from a face that refused to show any other emotion.  There was no shame in crying for Corsican men, like their Italian cousins, they were not afraid of their feelings, and believed strongly in cathartic displays of grief and anger.

Feale had arrived back in camp late the evening before.  By then, Marc-Ange was already on edge.  Colleen and her man had been gone since daybreak, and as he feared when they left "to get some supplies" from Vizzavona, they hadn't returned.

He was prepared for betrayal, for although he made quite the show of faith in Colleen with James, he never really trusted her in his heart.  He believed it was a woman's nature to deceive and betray men.  But what he wasn't ready for was the sickening truth the McCann girl had delivered.

She'd taken him aside, sparing him the public disgrace of her revelation.  But the knowledge of the thing he'd slept with ate away at him from within, whether his men knew of it, or not.  The kisses that had filled his mind with renewed vigour, and a reaffirmation of his ability to attract and hold such a creature against the constant tide of younger, more handsome, prospects, was washed away, and in it's place was the nausea of knowing the monster had pressed it's putrid lips against his own, had wiled it's tongue about his mouth, had held his body about and within it.

He'd hated this Donn from the stories of abuse Feale had shared with him, and then his hatred had been reinforced when the assassin had turned on James, but now…

The knife's blade bit the table again, but this time the blade turned, and snapped beneath the force of the driving hand.  A shard of the shattered blade met Marc-Ange's descending flesh, and dug deep into his palm.

The pain jerked him back to the present, and the tasks that lay ahead.  Some of the men were shouting his name from the street now, calling him forth to the hunt.  The old Capu stood, and brought his bleeding hand to his lips.  He clenched his teeth onto the broken section of the blade, tasting the tang of his own blood, and drew forth the shard, which he then spat onto the floor.

He wrapped the gash, forgoing stitches for a later time, there were more pressing wounds to be addressed.

The two remaining Humvees and a battered jeep were directly outside his front door, with seven of his most competent men aboard, all wearing the black balaclavas of the FLNC and each equipped with Colt automatics.  The only unmasked figure was Toussaint, who did want to waste time on costumes, and whose ancient wrinkled hands now gripped the wheel of the jeep which was positioned to lead the convoy into the hills.

"Once more into the breach?" Le Pouf asked Draco as he climbed aboard.  "But where is Emiliano?"

"I think we both know the answer to that," Marc-Ange replied with a humourless smile.  It hadn't taken an overly observant man to notice the time Emiliano had been spending with the Irishmen.

Rather than express his disgust with words, the old man settled with turning the ignition of the jeep.  They moved through the arch of the gate, and out into the field that lay between Monte Paese and the mountains to the north.

They had gained half the distance to the game trail that cut through the surrounding forest when shadows from above blocked the morning sun and a roar drowned out the engines of the autos.

Toussaint held out an open hand to the other drivers, and the caravan came to a halt.

Two huge attack helicopters were descending on their position like giant, deadly vultures.

"It is the French!" a voice rang out from the second Humvee in the middle of the pack.  In response, all of the men lifted their carbines to the sky.

"The bastards," Marc-Ange muttered, raising his own small Beretta to join its larger cousins, realising they were hopelessly out-armed when he saw the huge 30mm chain guns mounted to each gunship.

An aged hand laid itself upon his outstretched weapon, and levelled it back to the ground.  

"I think not," Toussaint's voice assured him.  The old pilot, who studied aircraft with the same passion most men reserve for beautiful women, was shaking his head.  

"Those are Westland Apaches.  They are not French, they're British," he assured his old friend.

* * *

          They were about their task for a several minutes, Troy doing as he was told, as Donn put the steady hands that had gained him so much wealth, to an ulterior, but just as delicate, task.

          Several of the men they'd practised on had squirmed at this time, either the result of the wrong dosage of the drug, or the delicacy of their media.  Either way, it had literally been a bloody mess.

          Bond's insertion went smoothly.

* * *

Someone was touching him "below decks".  Couldn't the damn woman leave him be?  James Bond's body was aching, and demanded the sleep it had been deprived.  But then the voices began again, grating his waking ears like sand in an open eye.

          "What if he comes out of it too early?" a man said.

          "Not a chance," was a woman's reply.  "With the Succinylcholine cocktail he'll be in and out until we hit him with the restorative.  Until then, his body will just be clay.  He can even feel us touching him, but his nervous system is repressed to the point he could barely sneeze if he had to.  A few more cc's and his heart would stop."

          He wasn't sure whom they were speaking about, but he felt damn sorry for the fellow.

          The strange hands continued to probe his lower regions, and it was not an entirely unpleasant feeling.  At least the dog was no longer licking his hands and wrists; that had been maddening.

          "Where did you manage to find these things anyway?" it was the man's voice again.

          "Amsterdam," she replied.  _Colleen, his mind whispered to him, __her name is Colleen.  "If you look hard enough, you can buy almost anything there.  I can't imagine there would be too many uses for them."_

          "What kind of sick bastards are there out there?" _his name is Troy, the same silent voice told him._

          "All kinds, my good sir.  All kinds."

          They were silent then, for a while, and his world remained dark, but for now there would be no drifting back to unconsciousness for him.  There was a peculiar feeling coming from his groin area, a feeling that lingered long after the probing hands had left.  Once again, it wasn't really unpleasant, but it was enough to keep the tides of sleep at bay.

          And then the blasted dog was back, lathering his hands and wrists with affection.  James Bond tried to jerk his hands away, but they seemed to ignore his mind's wishes.  He was still sitting, and he had a dim awareness that his hands were both behind him, behind the back of the chair.

          "Down, Boy!" he attempted to shout.  But what came from his mouth was little more than a weak mumble.

          The dog blissfully ceased for a moment, as if it were pausing to see if he would attempt to say more, but then it was back at its work again, this time more exuberant than ever.

          During this time, his eyes never opened; he had been content to just watch the swirling colours playing on the backs of his eyelids.  But now, along with the almost unbearable affections of the dog, had come the persistent feeling of being watched.

          He struggled to open his eyes.  Finally they fluttered, and he was greeted with the now familiar dirt floor and stonewalls of the hut.  For a moment, he tried to remember what he was doing here, but all concerns were swept away when he saw the woman sitting before him.

          _Sam, he started to say, but once again all he received for his efforts at speech was a thin line of drool, which escaped his lips along with a little less than a groan._

          She sat before him, wearing the same simple, yet stunning dress, she'd had the last time he'd seen her.

          _Something horrible had happened that night, hadn't it?_

          The question hadn't been spoken, but the expression the woman who sat across from him wore soured, and she nodded.

          The smile, her eyes, the hair; why did it hurt so for him to look at her?

          The drug clawed at his body again, and his eyes lapsed close.  When he fought them open again, the woman was still there before him, but it was a different Sam entirely.

          The pallor of her face had darkened to grey, matching her dress, and the eyes he'd seen dance with so many different emotions and passions somewhere in the past were clouded over with a milky haze.

          Bond had seen enough death to recognise it, even in his incapacitated state, but never had he seen a corpse animated, raising its once beautiful hands to the festering wound on its chest, or point to where the bullet had scarred the face he'd kissed so readily less than a week before.

          _Donn, he knew.  __Donn had done this._

_          The thing that had been Sam nodded._

          The damned dog began to lap at his hands again.  He attempted to turn to kick at the animal, but all he managed to do was tip his body to one side.  The chair caught his weight and his fall.  His mind had cleared enough to inform him he was tied to the solid metal frame of the chair.

          There were voices outside the hut, stirred no doubt by the noise he'd raised in his motions.

          "Colleen," the man who his mind insisted on calling Troy shouted.  "Your new boyfriend doesn't like his love bonds."

          There was a pause, during which Bond had the chance to remember who Colleen was, and who her new boyfriend might be.

          "Give him another injection, we're going to need him incapacitated for this next bit," a woman's voice replied.

          Troy, if that was his name, turned back to Bond, who somehow managed to keep the man in eyesight, even though he was half off the chair, with his head lifelessly lolled to one side.   Troy grabbed him by the shoulders roughly and set him upright on his throne, and Bond happily realised he could feel the pain of where the man had grasped him.  

          "Waste of good drugs," Troy muttered quietly, apparently more to himself than to Bond.  The tall, thin Irishman, with the strapping frame, took Bond's chin in his left hand, cradling his wobbling head, and then pulled back his right hand in a scarred and ugly fist.  

          James Bond's eyes were open the entire time, following Troy's clenched hand as it fell to his face, wondering what the man was up to, right up until the moment of impact as the fist descended.  The world went dark again, a strange dreamland where a dead woman was fondling him in a very private manner, whispering warnings into his ear along the way.

* * *

          When Donn re-entered the shepherd's hut, Troy watched as the assassin quickly took inventory of the sparse surroundings.

          The table, littered with Donn's playthings, was still the centrepiece of the room, with Bond strapped to the chair beside it.  In the corner behind Bond was the barely breathing body of the doctor.  Now, with both Donn and himself in the room, it had become rather cramped, but it would still suit their purposes.

          "Help me with his clothes," Donn informed him.  Following Donn's lead, Troy took one of the scalpels from the top of the wooden table, they were surgical steel, and were the same type used in many hospital emergency rooms to remove the clothing from injured patients.  He and Donn had practised the next part back in Bangkok countless times.  After Donn had finished with the men, they'd drugged them just as Bond was now.  They even attempted to single out men of a similar weight, age, and body type as Bond, so their dosages would be correct.

          The clothes came off like overripe fruit peels beneath the gleaming blades, and soon their unconscious victim was naked before them.  Troy hadn't expected the sea of pale scar flesh that awaited his eyes beneath the garments.

          "Holy Christ," he muttered aloud.  "This sorry bastard must be one tough bugger."

          Donn was making his own appraisal of Bond, and Troy wondered if he was seeing him through a man's, or woman's, eyes.

          "Funny," the assassin said.  "I spent most of my childhood being terrified of this glorified bobby; waiting for him to show up one night to finish the job he'd started with my father.  Sitting there in nothing but his skin, he looks just as silly and harmless as any other naked man.  I went through hell for this sad, little piece of flesh."

          Donn paused, and then reached his hand out to the bloodied nose of the man in the chair.

          "What's this?" he shot Troy an accusing look that carried death with it.

          Troy had seen the look before, and he'd also had to help clean up the results of that look, all the way back to Saint Pete's.

          "He must have struck his face when he fell from the chair," was all he could manage as he felt the blood drain from his face.  He wondered if he'd made a fatal mistake.  Why should it matter?  Unconscious was unconscious, after all.

          There was another pause from Donn, and then, "Very well.  Let's get to it."

                                                          * * *

          After so many years, the stage was finally his.

          The needle slid easily into Bond's forearm, and almost immediately the tethered man began to stir. 

          Donn quickly placed the empty syringe back on the table.  Much like an actor slipping into character, the assassin began to shirk back into his female persona.  It was still an uncomfortable skin to be in, but it was no longer a strange one.  Lately, there were times when he actually could feel Colleen wanting to come out.  Donn, who had never been one to question his manhood, nor his sanity, had written this off to the damn hormones he had to pop like a junkie, rather than schizophrenia.

          Now, fully immersed in Colleen, Donn sat back in his mind, watching the woman within him do her dirty work.

          She motioned to Troy to step behind the man in the chair, and as Julian did so, she watched him give a kick to the lifeless doctor whose body was lying in the rear corner of the hut.  Colleen wanted it to be her, and only her, the agent's eyes encountered upon awakening.  Seeing Bond's lids begin to flutter, she came forward and cooed into his ear.

          "Charmian, Charmian, can me oul flower Jimmy come out and play?" she whispered.  She finished with a gentle tug of his ear lobe with her teeth.

          He came back to life much quicker than she'd anticipated.

          With the tug, Bond's eyes flew open into full consciousness, like blinds whose guiding hands had gone astray.  Colleen, using her experience had positioned her beautifully chiselled face a few inches in front of his.  The eyes that greeted her were alert and aware, and worse yet, recognised her for what she was.

          Before she could pull away, Bond spat full into her face.

          "Whakindasicfuru?!" he slobbered out at her, the words uncertain, but their meaning clear.

          She was enraged, but Donn's wolfish killer's grin never left her collagen-enhanced lips, even as she stood up and wiped the saliva away from her face.  Colleen licked seductively at the hand she'd used to wipe clean while shooting a private glance at Troy who stood silently back in the shadows behind Bond.  The glance informed Troy that she knew he'd failed to deliver the second dose of the sedative, and promised of reprisals to come.  Visibly shaken, the man took a step further back, making himself flush with the wall.

          "I'll take it the little bitch has already ruined my million pound surprise, Mr. Bond," Colleen informed him.  "But the good news is … I still have a few more."

          She spoke slowly, knowing his mind would still be dancing with the cocktail and would only be able to handle so much.

          "As your body allows, take a look around Mr. Bond, and let me know if you should happen to spy anything unusual with those heightened, master spy perceptions of yours."

          Bond did as he was told, lolling his head from side to side to the best of his ability, at first doing nothing more than drooling on himself from his slackened mouth, but as the restorative shot did its work, he was finally able to hold his head upright.

* * *

          There was something wrong, that much was for certain.  His arms were still restrained, but he doubted if he could have raised them even if his life depended on it, and it most certainly did.  Bond's body from the neck down felt as if it had fallen asleep, and was now tingling with restored blood flow.  He could now feel the sweat running down his bare chest, induced by what must have been midday heat pouring through the door less entranceway to the rough shelter.

          How long had he been lost in the drug-induced fog?  Had it been a day, two, a week?  He rubbed his chin against his chest feeling the stubble residing there; no, it had been only for the evening.  If Feale had been true, then Marc-Ange, or even his own people might be on their way.

          "Thoughts of rescue, 007?" the creature before him purred, enjoying herself far too much.  "You still don't get it, do you?  I don't care what happens to me," she held her arms out at the sides of her body to demonstrate.  "There isn't much of me left here to begin with.  I have no exit plan, no grand escape.  Since the age of eight, my whole life has been leading to your death.  Once that goal has been achieved, I'll end it myself rather than let some motherless British Molly take the credit.  But one thing is for certain; you will not be around to see it.  No, you're going to go out in a glorious blaze of pain."

          There were no lapping dogs or dead women filling Bond's head now, his mind was sharpening, even though his body was lagging far behind.  Judging from the breathing, there was at least one person behind him, most likely Troy, standing guard over a man who could barely raise his head, much less defend himself.  On the table next to him were several syringes, apparently armed and ready to go, and a can of Café Malongo that Bond's instincts assured him held something much worse than La Grande Reserve of Arabica beans.

          "We'll hear your friends coming, trust me," Colleen continued.

          "Wha ave ooo dun?" he struggled forth.

          More smiles.

          "Well, while you were napping, Julian and I were busy laying enough AP mines around the surrounding grounds to give Saddam Hussein Mot's crossbar.  Speaking of which, have you noticed anything yet?"

          And so he had.

          The sleepy tingling of his body had begun to give way to true feeling, and something unhealthy was stirring in his lap.

          The discomfort was slight, but his eyes followed Colleen's down to his own nakedness, and an erection that wasn't.  His uninspired manhood stood at attention, as if marionette strings had been attached and were holding him aloft.  But it didn't take "master spy" perceptiveness, as Colleen had put it, to spot the thin glass tube protruding from the tip, and from the burning feeling starting to eat away at his crotch, and his sanity, he could only imagine how far it went down.  His whole body recoiled at the violation and sickness he felt, and he strained against the ropes holding his arms and legs against the chair.  There seemed to be some play at the binds on his wrists, but in his weakened state, they might as well have been iron.

          "Mind yourself, Mr. Bond," Colleen now said.  "I would severely advise you not to struggle.  Your little glass tube there is only slightly thicker than tissue paper, and I didn't take the time and trouble of getting it in there so that you could mank things up and make a mess of yourself.  There are many Thai men who paid the ultimate price so that I could thread your needle that neatly, don't let their sacrifices go in vain."

          "Your insane," was all Bond could mutter, his speech almost free of impediment now, but he followed the thing's advice and calmed his movements.

          Colleen took his comments in stride.

          "To a degree, but it is a very special type of insanity, and one you helped nurture.  It's as much your child as it is mine.  One nice thing about my chosen vocation is that it allowed me an occasional side dalliance with torture.  For years I've known this moment would come, and that I'd be standing here with you helpless before me.  Twenty years to ready myself, to study, and to practice, just so I could help you reach that ultimate high.  When I read your file, I knew it would take something special, to push you.  As Troy was so eager to point out, your body is a roadmap of those that came before me.  Chemicals, scalpels, carpet beaters, it took a true student to come up with something original."

          "But I'm sure you managed, somehow," Bond muttered dejectedly, his voice nearly free of impediments.  He was looking down at himself, attempting to will the glass tube from his body, or at least will it to stay in one piece.  

          "Actually, yes," Colleen obviously wanted to bask in her cleverness, and Bond was willing to let her go if it meant buying a more precious moments.  "It was something of an epiphany I had, and once again, it was inspired by your file.  Outside of your blind allegiance to Mother England, you live a particular lifestyle, Mr. Bond; twice as bright, half as long, if you will.  You smoke those foul smelling Turkish blends like an industrial chimney, you drink liquor as if your kidneys were just another criminal to be punished, and most of all you use women like a drug.   That's why this beautiful piece of flesh is standing here now, I knew if I wanted to get close enough to you to cause you real pain, to screw you like a Brasser, I would have to be a woman.  You pick the poison to suit the man, and if there's anything I learned from the play yard at St. Pete's, it's that if you want to hurt someone, you take away their favourite toy."

          "Bitch," Bond muttered.

          "Why, yes," Colleen agreed.  "Bitch, bastard, whatever; I get a little confused myself sometimes.  But you, Mr. Bond, Mr. High-and-mighty-moral-high-ground, Mr. Killer-of-children's-fathers, Mr. Destroyer-of-little-boys'-lives, you are a bastard, and there is little doubt about that."

          "As I was saying, when I read about all the women in your life, it brought to mind this little trick you see before you.  A bit of living history from the Nazis, the good doctors Horst Schumann and Joseph Mengele at Auschwitz to be exact.  In the camps they would try all sorts of things to "cure" or sterilize Jews and other undesirables, many of whom were sick because the Nazis had injected them with the illnesses to begin with.  Well, one Bonnie day they came across a clever idea to "cure" homosexuals.  We'll just shove a glass tube up their penis, get them all hot and bothered, and then let Mother Nature do the rest.  Do you know how many nerve receptors there are in a man's penis?"

          Bond had never been one of those Freudian basket cases that dwelt on their own endowments, although there had been more than one personality profiler in the service over the years that had tried to brandish him with that tag because of his romantic escapades.  He had always felt his own physicality was just a road that took him the places he wanted to go; from mission to mission, and sometimes, from bed to bed.  But somewhere in the back of his mind, there was a primitive terror that wanted to cower from any threat to his manhood.   

As with most men, however, dwelling on thoughts of his sexual self, tended to make things stir, and James Bond realised with horror that that part of him was beginning to come to life.

          "Ah, yes," Colleen coaxed him along with a sensual voice.  "You see, Mr. Bond…or shall I call you James?  Considering we're about to be very intimate, indeed, I think I'll stick with James.   There was a little more than just a restorative in the hypo I gave you a few minutes ago.  For starters, there was some Ecstasy, a special mix of my own, guaranteed to make every thing you feel intensify tenfold, and then there was a little bit of a prescription performance enhancer that makes Viagra look like a cold shower."

          The sweat on his body had cooled.  He'd spent his whole life being witness to the horrible things men were capable of doing to one another, and trying to right some of the grievous wrongs he'd seen.  And now, out here in the middle of beautiful nowhere, he was going to go from being the butcher of villains, to being butchered himself by this maniac.

          "As good old Doctor Chansue would tell me, I'm going to give you a beautiful Ferrari of a body, and I'm going to give you the keys, but it is going to be up to you to learn how to drive it."

          As she spoke, Colleen ran her splayed fingers through her hair, combing it into a dark, wild mane that went down her back.  Bond realised she was posing for him, and her intent was becoming clear.  He hadn't even begun to guess at how sick and twisted Donn's mind had become.

          "So, I had to study, and find just the right way to walk to draw a man's eyes to me, how to hold myself so my new feminine wares could be put on proper display, how to coo a man to attention, and groan in mock pleasure.  And of coarse, I had to learn how to f***."

          "You're a sick and sad thing, Peter," Bond told him, trying so hard to distance himself from the unwilling fire growing in his loins.  It had little to do with Colleen's coarse display and language, which was actually making him ill, and more to do with the chemicals his body had been dealt.  James Bond tried to let his mind drift away from the stale, little hole.  There was a breeze coming from the opening to the hut, one of the cool mountain breezes Che Che had literally been singing the praises of the day before.  Would that same air be working its way down the mountain soon, to Feale, to Marc-Ange, closer to the ones he cared for, and farther away from this monster.

          Colleen had continued as if he'd never spoken.

          "It certainly is hot in here, isn't it?" she said, unbuttoning the top buttons to the basic, green fatigues she wore.  The curvature of her sculpted breasts were now on display, as if they were playing a child's game of hide and seek beneath the loosened fabric.  With ample amounts of self-loathing and alarm, Bond felt his body begin to respond.  The cold sweat poured forth from his face and torso.  How much longer would it be now before the first break?

          "Anyway, once the scarring started to heal enough, I started picking up men on the street and bringing them back to deserted apartment where Troy and I had set up mattresses and whatever other accoutrements we would need.  It was rough at first, actually quite painful, not to mention disgusting.  My body was still trying to put itself back together, there was blood most of the time, but I got through it, and when the pain got bad, I just thought about you, James.  Hate can help you through hard times.  They would call me beautiful, and I would coyly laugh.  They would buy me dinner, and make pretence of complementing my fashion sense, and I would demurely look away like a shy schoolgirl.  When they laid their hands on me, I wanted to rend the flesh from their living bodies, but I would remain calm and mimic the passion their egos required.  And then, of coarse, I had the pleasure of killing them when I was through, that made it a little better."

          Her hands wandered down the remainder of her top, displacing the buttons as they went.  Soon, she shirked the shirt off and onto the dirt floor like a dead skin, and her magnificent, perfectly formed breasts were on full display.

          "Never could get used to wearing a bra, though, they are the damnedest, most uncomfortable things.  I still don't see how women do it.  I'm sorry, how other women do it.  So, how do they look?"

          He would not give her the satisfaction.  He was far too busy following that breeze.

          "What do you think, Julian?" she sought a second opinion.

          "Damn fine diddies," came the reply from somewhere behind Bond.

          "He should know," she remarked flippantly.  "It was a good thing to start with Thai men, they aren't always the best endowed.  But once I'd gotten better at the whole sex thing, I let Troy take a couple of test drives.  In fact, he and that crotchety father-in-low of yours are the only ones who've lived to talk about it, and that's probably a temporary state for at least one of them."

          Colleen kicked off her boots, pealed back her socks, and then slowly wiggled out of her pants, giving far more of a show than was necessary to accomplish the task.

          And then she stood before him in all her glory, hands on hips, not more than an arm's length away from Bond.  Colleen had a statuesque quality, not the cheap, voluptuousness of a Page Three girl, but a more Athenian, classical and muscular beauty.  Bond couldn't blame Marc-Ange for becoming entangled in this dark, sensual beauty, and it took every fibre of his being to avoid the trap himself.  He thought of financial reports, he thought of long rides in the countryside, he thought of cards with M at the club, he thought of anything but the beautiful woman before him.

          She came in close again, bending down just in front of him so that her hard nipples brushed against his face.

          "Amazing stamina, 007," she whispered in his ear.  "Now, where are you hiding in there?"  She stood again, and walked away from him, allowing him to observe that her heart-shaped, high riding hips were as well formed as the rest of her.  Then she turned as if a thought had come to her.

          "So how did you like Feale?" she asked.  "Isn't she amazing?  You should have seen her when she was younger.  You know, after Tom had grown accustomed to the idea, he let us share our own apartment at St. Pete's. This was long before we lived together at _Tech Duinn_.  During the week, we helped with classes, and meals, and the like.  But the weekends were our own.  There were times when we'd practically spend the whole weekend in bed.  Ah, but to be a teenager again.  I happen to know for a fact I have run my tongue along every inch of that beautiful, translucent skin of hers.  God, those little noises she used to make."

          There were certain things that people couldn't control.  Certain involuntary reactions that were possibly within the grasp of Tibetan monks, but to average men and women could be held back now more than breathing.

          The first crack came, and James Bond's world exploded.  He had told himself he wouldn't give Donn the satisfaction, but when the time came there was no point in holding back the screams that tore from him.

          It was quickly followed by a second break, and then a third, and then countless others, each bringing a new hell of blood and agony.  He screamed until his throat was raw and his voice shredded.  The whole time there was a small oasis of sanity in his mind, a place where he could sense the monster standing there before him, watching him, and gloating as decades of hate found their cathartic striking point.

          Finally he could feel his body was loosing its sweat-drenched grip on reality, and he began to slide into blissful unconsciousness.

          But then the hands were upon him again, waving an ammonia tablet beneath his nose, and shoving a fresh needle into his arm.

          They were not going to let him go.

          On and on it went, the sounds of snapping glass punctuating each blinding burst of pain.  In the past, when he'd been tortured, there was always a point where the pain had just become a blinding wall and lost its edge.  He'd once met a man named Sun, who had created an art of fluctuating degrees of pain, so that new heights could be reached.  By juxtaposing pain with pleasure, he'd created much greater peaks and lower valleys.

          But now this chemical nightmare had refused him a retreat, and the pain went on forever, ever increasing, ever bringing him closer to madness.  He imagined talking to his aunt at one point, and then making love to Tracy, only to look down in the middle of their passion to find his manhood had been turned into a shredded stalk of pale, bloodied, ribbons.

          And then, when he thought things could be no worse, a husky feminine voice came to his ear, speaking clearly though the hurricane of pain and insanity.

          "You never had her, you bastard," the voice croaked.  "I told Feale to sleep with you.  I told her to think of what I couldn't do to her anymore when you touched her, to make your hands, my hands, your sex, my sex.  She's going to lead Marc-Ange like the tethered old goat he is, and any other fool stupid enough to follow, right into my minefield.  You see, she's willing to die for me."

          What could not be made worse, was worse, and Bond's last vestige of sanity began to sink beneath the waves.

          Then two harsh hands closed about his bleeding manhood and testicles, and began to twist and knead it so that every last shard of glass was crushed to a bloody powder.  By the time they were done, Bond had finally slipped into the black where even drugs could no longer reach him.    


	13. The Shepherds' Graveyard

**_Chapter Fourteen: The Shepherds' Graveyard_**  
  


The Rokon-AB23 hummed between Feale's legs with its steady, thundering rhythm.  The ground beneath her was eaten away at a ferocious pace as the 2 x 2 motorbike paced itself up the fifty-degree incline like an automated mountain goat.  It was amazing to her how sixty kilometres an hour may seem like crawling on an open road, but when driving up a mountain, dodging trees and rock outcroppings, it was a blur of obstacles.

She'd "borrowed" the bike from Marc-Ange's stores beneath the church once she realised the Corsican had no intention of taking a woman along on his little raiding party, much less a woman whose allegiances were suddenly in question.  Bond had been right about Draco not seeking retribution against her, or if it was to happen, the old man had been in too much shock initially, and her punishment was to be slow in coming.

Part of her prayed (for prayer was still a vital and important part of her life; they'd taught them more than just combat at St. Pete's) that Bond would come back down the mountain with Donn's blood on his hands.  Certainly she wanted her own vengeance, but it would have saved her heart some wear if the Englishman were sound and unharmed.  But through each hour of the evening that had passed, a night without sleep for her, it became more and more obvious her initial fears would be correct.  She had tried to explain to the thick-headed bastard going back for Che Che may have seemed like the gallant thing to do, but it was also exactly what Donn would anticipate him doing.  Donn was a master at kill boxes, it had always been his bread and butter.  He was always three moves ahead of his quarry, luring them in, then sealing the trap.  Just as he'd known there would be a rescue party sent from the village, and with or without Marc-Ange, there would be a minefield awaiting them.  Just as she was sure there were contingency plans for her own betrayal.

She dodged between several trees, and was once again impressed with the sturdy, thick-tyred bike.  The deep cleats dug into undergrowth like teeth, and her ascent continued unabated.  It used a Kohler engine and drove more like a tractor than a motorcycle.  The AB23 was even able to float across streams when its tyres were properly inflated, tyres also designed to be used for spare petrol storage, giving the machine a 650-kilometre range.  Its heavy, but compact frame, allowed it to cut through dense, jungle like conditions, and also gave it an unmatched ability to drive straight up sharp inclines.  The later trait assured her a quick arrival at Donn's base camp.  She had a thin lead to maintain.  She'd left after Draco's men, even watched through field glasses as they'd met with the Brits who'd arrived so dramatically in their helicopters, but she would get to Donn long before their vehicles were even the mummers of distant engines.  Peter had kept quiet about his plans for Bond, but she was quite certain he wasn't going to kill him outright.  He would toy with him like a cat, wringing out every drop of physical and emotional agony, before devouring him.

She was covered in her own sweat, and the grime of the _maquis_ thrown up from the floor of the forest, and lashed upon her from the passing fronds and trees.  Feale had no plan of her own, just a desperate need to save the cold, but handsome, Englishman, and feed her own ravenous desire for retribution.  She only hoped there would be enough of Bond left to save.

* * *

The dog was back, lathering his wrists from behind with renewed, almost urgent, tenacity.  This time, however, there was no drugged haze to obscure his thoughts, and James Bond was well aware there were no dogs about.

Consciousness flowed back quickly this time, and without the drugs to interfere, he was able to grasp it and hold on tightly.  He was surprised at how little pain there actually was; if anything there was just a burning numbness coming from his groin area, one that spoke loudly of the agony to come, but for now was a dull roar.  He could feel the stickiness coating his legs, and between his bare hindquarters and the seat of the chair, so he knew there had been quite a bit of blood loss, but he'd certainly known worse.  He tested wiggling his toes, and he could feel that the dirt floor beneath his feet was also muddied with his various humours.  Bond didn't preoccupy his mind with the injuries, survival wasn't a concern of his, and it never was.  Thoughts of self-preservation just got in the way of him completing assignments, and his priority right now was making sure Donn didn't get his satisfaction.  Or, at least, any more satisfaction.

James Bond used his ears to check the room before opening his eyes.  After a few minutes of silence, aside from the shuffling sounds coming from behind him and the buzzing of hungry flies gorging themselves, he was satisfied Donn and Troy had retreated from the hovel.  The place probably smelled strongly of their ministrations now, and even sadistic bastards can get disgusted by smelling things meant to be left on the insides of bodies.

When he allowed his eyes to creep open, he was careful to avoid looking down to survey the damage.  It had been his experience that avoiding the sight of an injury could help one temporarily over come it.  He had witnessed a football match once while on assignment in Brazil.  A star forward had broken his leg, and still continued to play throughout the heat of battle, even scoring the winning goal in overtime.  He tore his ligaments and muscles to shreds, and after the game, learned he would never walk normally again, much less play football.

Instead, Bond braced his eyes against the faint light bleeding through the open doorway of the stone hut, and glanced backwards to affirm that his imaginary dog friend was just that.

James Bond was greeted by what might have once been a human face, but was now a swollen purple and red visage that leaked blood from every orifice and looked back at him with eyes drowned in red.  The thing attempted to smile through what must have been ghastly pain, and then went back to its business of gnawing at the ropes binding Bond's hands from behind.

"Che Che?" Bond whispered, wondering how far his captors had wandered from their charge.  The answer was most likely not far.  He'd garnered the idea earlier from Donn's preaching that once Bond had regained his composure and consciousness, they planned on putting on a little show for him using Che Che's battered body as a canvas.

The giant nodded, but then ran air through his cracked lips in a shushing sound, adding credence to Bond's thoughts.

Bond now flexed his wrists to aid the doctor in loosening the ties.  As the knots became slacker, he found he could turn more easily in the chair, providing two unfortunate results.  The first was the pain from his crotch, which had been bathed in numbness, but now became a more defined thing as fresh blood was pumped from the disturbed wounds and an angry cloud of flies took flight.  The second was the ability to take a better inventory of Che Che's own wounds.  The man was sprawled on the ground behind the chair, and Bond could make out the trail of blood moving back and forth from his body's resting place in the corner of the shepherd's shelter.  He'd been taking a horrible chance to free Bond, leaving a trail that noticeable, but in all honesty, there wasn't much more Donn could do to the man other than to kill him.  With the way Che Che was propped up awkwardly on his elbows with his legs sprawled out behind him, he resembled a grotesque, beached seal. Bond could tell each of his arms and legs were broken, some in multiple spots.  His right leg was so drastically shattered the bones protruded beneath the skin like the outline of a corpse beneath a sheet.  His fingers were also gnarled and crushed, useless to the point that he had to resort to chewing at the ties holding Bond.

They struggled there in the shaded darkness, for what seemed an eternity, a time so long that a glimmer could begin to fester itself in a wounded man's mind that perhaps his attackers had gone, left the two of them to bleed to death in solitude.  But as Bond started to feel his restraints becoming more and more loose, he began to dig within himself for that old, bottomless reserve of perseverance, and in doing so, began to hope that Donn and Julian hadn't left.  One way or another, this was going to finish.

* * *

Julian Troy took a few more drags off of the cigarette he'd fleeced from the Brit, after all, he wouldn't need them much longer.  They were foul, dark things, bitter and full of bite, but he had to admit, they also carried a nicotine kick that left him shaking his head for clarity.

He'd been leaning against the rear wall of the shepherd's hut, as if he were once again the Catholic schoolboy, hiding from the nuns, while catching a quick puff of the forbidden fruit.   Maybe there was something to the old guilt cliché, he decided.  But instead of being some princess hung up on sex, he was an assassin hung up on the moral ramifications of smoking.

Julian harboured no fears of smoking; it's not as if Donn would care.  But if he were caught abandoning his post, the ever-constant vigil of Mr. James Bond, there would be hell to pay.  In all honesty to himself, however, he couldn't stand being in there…in the death room.  He'd seen enough torture in his days, (working with Donn since they'd been teenagers, first with the IRA, and then on freelance jobs to help foot the bills, it was unavoidable) but it didn't get his rocks off like it did for Peter.  That is, if Peter had still had rocks to get off.  The killing he could live with, but pulling the wings off of flies had never been his game.  Just the smell of the place, with the blood, and urine, and faeces, was enough to drive him out into the clean mountain air.

Right now, the crazy bastard was out there playing with his mines.  As gunmen, neither of them had much experience with the things, and Donn was having a hard time living up to his own perfectionist standards in their concealment.  It would be a shame if he blew all that pretty surgery to Kingdom Come fiddling with one of the damn things.

Julian had always prided himself on his hearing; his ears had saved his skin more than once in the past.  Now, the cool air brought a momentary sound to him, a distant motor roaring, but it wasn't the Hummer, it was high-pitched, like a motorbike.  Perhaps it had been his ears playing tricks, but he doubted it.  Soon, they would have company, and hopefully a real fight on their hands.  He had tired of the cloak and dagger, closed-door operation, and he longed to cut loose.  They'd brought enough firepower in the Hummer to light half the mountainside ablaze, and knowing Donn, they'd probably do just that.

He extinguished the cigarette beneath the heel of his boot, and rounded the hut to the front.  Gritting his teeth against the awaiting stench, he heard the low droning of a man's hushed voice as he approached the door.  So, their sleeper had awoken.

When he entered the hut, all was as it had been; the table, the near corpse in the corner, and the bloodied and naked figure of Bond strapped to the chair.   The Brit's head was cocked to one side, and a line of blood and spittle had worked its way from his mouth, but Troy wasn't buying it.  He positioned himself opposite the spy and stared at the other man's face, waiting for a twitch to give away a hint of consciousness.

"Come on, Bugger, I heard you mummerin'.  He took a couple of false swings at the man, but there wasn't any response.  Frustrated, he took a real swipe at Bond's head, only to be rewarded with a dull thud, as his target lolled back, like an abandoned, anchored boat bobbing in the water.

Now, he could hear the Humvee pulling up front.  Finally, Donn was back, and hopefully ready to start putting an end to things.

"Ya hear that, Boyo?" Julian said to the limp figure.  "Whether you want to pretend to pay attention or not, we're going to carve your friend, the good Doctor, up for you like a Christmas goose.  All fine and good for me," he said as he walked around to the corner where the giant lay crushed.  He lifted Che Che's massive head by the scalp.  "I was wantin' to get a little slice of that whore of his before we left town, anyway."

He would have carried on, but now Julian heard a voice from outside.  A woman's voice, Feale's to be exact, calling out to Donn.  She must have been on the bike he'd heard a few minutes earlier and hidden in the brush until Donn had made the scene.

Now, he could hear Colleen's voice, and the volume level was quickly increasing as the two began to shout at one another.  Once again, Troy realised, Donn had been correct.  He'd said that Feale would come back for him, or for Bond, and that either way it wouldn't matter; she was just going to provide them with another avenue for torturing Bond.

"Then again, maybe the boss will let me have a go with his ex, before we slit her throat in front of you."

Still no response from either man.  Well, it didn't matter in the end.  He had to get moving or the boss might have a go with him.  He unzipped the pouch strapped to his side, and removed the syringe.  Donn had even prepped the tranq for Feale's body weight.  The man thought of everything.

Standing between the table and Bond, Julian Troy took the last step he would ever make toward the door.  Then all hell broke loose.

* * *

Bond had listened to the man's childish taunting.  He'd been impressed with Che Che's silence when he'd mentioned Marie.  Corsicans had a hard time staying quiet as it was, and it must have taken considerable effort to swallow his pride like as he had.

The two of them had bided their time, however, waiting for the moment Troy's guard would drop, and Feale's arrival had provided them with that opportunity. 

As the Irishman made for the door, James Bond stood up, with no little difficulty, slid his right arm around the back of the other man's head, and muffled Julian, palm over mouth, while at the same time yanking him back against his own chest.  Troy panicked for just a moment, but recovered quickly.  He was reaching back with the hypodermic, trying to jab it into his assailant's stomach, but he'd already given Bond more than enough time.  Using the screaming pain from his crotch as an adrenaline pump, Bond fished blindly on the table with his free left hand, searching for the coffee can.

Once his efforts were rewarded with a hollow, glass stiletto, he quickly drove it deep into Julian's left eye socket.  The scream was squelched by Bond's other hand, and then silenced by a merciful two- handed twist that severed his opponent's life from his body.

Putting his pain away again, Bond slowly bent to retrieve the syringe, and arose, naked and damaged, for the next challenge.

He ran, as best he could, to Che Che.

"Are you alright, for now?" he asked the giant quietly.

The man attempted to say something positive, but the words were lost to his injuries.

James Bond made his way to the door, crossing the threshold in the concealing shadows.

The two female voices had continued their argument unabated, and had provided more than ample interference to cover Bond's near silent kill.  Now, crouched next to the hovel's opening, he could catch their words clearly.

"…hoped to accomplish what?" Colleen's voice droned on.  Bond had noticed that once Donn had learned that he was party to assassin's little secret, something had changed in Colleen's voice.  It was as if he no longer needed to feign femininity.  Thanks to the surgery, it was still pitched higher than a man's, but it now had gruffness to it, almost like a teenage boy whose voice was beginning to break.   It was painful to listen to, but Bond carried on.  "Were you coming to rescue Bond, the maid in shining armour?  No, no, I don't think so.  I think you were coming to finish this sad little play of yours."

"Is that what you did to Tom?" Feale snapped back.  "Did you just keep talking until he blew his own head off out of sheer boredom?"

That one must have struck close to home, Bond thought, for Donn went silent for a few moments. 

_ He's not talking for your sake, Feale,_ Bond thought to himself.  _He's buying time so Troy can take you from behind._  Donn just didn't know Troy's days of doing anything at all had come to an end.  Although Bond didn't want to risk glancing outside, he was able to construct a mental picture of the two verbal combatants.  From their voices, they were no more than seven or eight meters from the shepherd's hut.  Donn was most likely standing next to the Hummer, where he would have been unloading his toys for the next round of festivities inside the stonewalls.  At least one of them, possibly both, had weapons out; otherwise they would have been at each other by now.

"I'll tell you what you came here for," Donn picked up again, letting Feale's words lay by the roadside.  "You came here to commit suicide.  You don't want to kill me, you want to be killed yourself, or you would have used that thing by now."  So, Feale was the one with a gun, Bond noted.  Why the hell didn't she just shoot the bastard?  He shook his head, once again wondering why women didn't leave men's games to men.

"Don't you feel anything?"  McCann asked, emotion creeping into her voice.  Bond had seen this play out before, female operatives could be effective, very cold-hearted killers if necessary, but if a personal element came into play…

"If this gun were in your hand right now, I'd be dead, wouldn't I?" she stammered.

"Stone cold, my love," Donn replied bluntly.  "As dead as that thing you had in your womb."  He was trying to push her over the edge, and from all indications, succeeding.

The shot that came jerked Bond to his feet, and the following brief sounds of struggle made him lean to the doorway, but still he hesitated.  His best chance at Donn was to take him from concealment when he walked through the door.  

_Was he willing to let Feale die just to gain the upper hand?_  He found himself a victim of the same sentimentality that he'd been silently cursing McCann for a moment before.

"I'm sorry, Feale," he heard Colleen say.  "The truth is, I feel everything.  I just don't let it come between me and my destiny."  

Bond could hold his position no longer.

He quickly glanced around he corner of the doorway.

Feale was down on a knee with her back to him, she was obviously in pain, and slightly stunned.   Donn stood facing her, and in doing so, facing Bond as well.  As he'd feared, Donn's well-trained eyes flicked to the brief movement in the doorway, and Bond knew his simple plan was undone.

  "I loved Tom as much as you did, probably more.  You just came later, an afterthought.  I was their first chosen one.  I would have loved to have married you, spent my life with you, and raised a family I could have loved.  But the monster inside that hut, the thing you let make love to you, it took my heart, and left me with shite for a soul."  There was a pause for a moment.  "And now, I'm going to watch it die slowly."

The last was obviously intended for Bond, but Feale was still oblivious to his presence, which seemed to be exactly the way Donn wanted it.

Taking a cue from the Irishman's lead, Bond stepped out of the doorway as silently as he could with his injuries into the now blinding sunlight.  He held the hypodermic in plain sight.

"You bastard," Feale spat at the ground, still on a knee.  Bond stopped, wondering if she'd seen him, but then realised she was still addressing Donn.  "You could have let it go anytime you wanted, the truth is you just enjoy the suffering, everything else is a convenient excuse."

With Feale's eyes averted to the ground, Donn focused back on the approaching man.

"Will you let her live, if I do this?" Bond mouthed slowly and silently.  He didn't want to trust Donn, but he didn't have many choices.  Her Majesty had been bartering his life for years, and it was about time he traded it for something himself.

Donn paused for a moment, then nodded.

James Bond stood over Feale's crouched figure, his shadow stretched out behind him like an unwilling accomplice, staring at the exposed back of her neck.    He gave a brief moment to think of having caressed that neck, before driving the needle home.

"Sorry, Luv," he told the girl as she crumpled to the ground.

* * *

"Mano un Mano, is it then?" the thing he'd known as Colleen asked.

Bond shrugged.

"Something like that, I guess," he replied.

"Well, I hope you weren't expecting I'd just lay down my gun, so we could strip down and settle this thing like men.  You see, I really don't qualify any longer, and from the looks of things, you're barely in the running yourself."

Bond took the comment in stride, but it still performed its purpose.  He quickly glanced down at his naked self and his own injuries, with the caked blood running down the length of his legs had been covered over by a fresh crimson river, and somewhere down beneath the blood, there was something that used to be a part of him.  He felt his own energy wane as the pain attempted to return in waves.

In contrast, Donn looked robust.  Fresh from the struggle with Feale, Colleen was flushed red, her arms muscular and glistening with sweat.  She was wearing camouflage pants now, with a khaki coloured sleeveless top, and Altama combat boots.  Her long, black hair was pulled back into a loose tail.  She held Feale's Springfield M1911 in her left hand, steady as hell, and aimed at Bond's midsection.

Donn had continued to ramble on the entire time.  Feale was right; it was as if after a lifetime of killing mostly from a distance, he was now happy to be able to play with his victims close up and personal before dispatching them, much like a well-fed cat tortures mice before making the kill.  This deviation from the assassin's routine, one that Bond had been careful to avoid over the years, gave the spy hope.  Part of being a professional was sticking to routine, and when one strayed from that routine, mistakes were made.  A few mistakes would be all Bond would need to level the playing field.  

"It's kind of ironic things should end up here, you know.  I knew you would run to the hills, after all, I had hundreds of years of Corsican history to back me up.  There's a thousand little huts just like this on this island, and they're not just here for the shepherds.  When the Corsican men found out there were a vendettas on their heads, they made for the _maquis,_ especially in the highlands.  Many a shepherd was made of a wanted man.  Of coarse, this was a well-known fact, and usually the rival family would just go to the hills, and hunt down the offending party.  This hut here," Donn gestured toward the hovel with his free hand, the gun staying ever calm with it's one eye patiently focused on Bond.  "Has more than just a hundred years of sheep dung dried on its floors, there's more than a fair share of blood there as well.  Your ghost is going to have a lot of company before moving on to Hell."  

Bond felt the time drawing to a close.  Donn was going to tire of being in the pulpit, and his little speech was petering out.  Giving up wasn't an option.  Certainly Che Che was going to die if he didn't get help soon, and he had little faith in Donn keeping his word on Feale.  His one hope was to keep things going long enough so Marc-Ange and his men might be able to pick their way through the minefield successfully.  The tree line was only six or seven meters away.  If he could make it into the_ maquis,_ even though it was thinned at this height, it would still provide ample cover for him to gain a few precious minutes.

"No, I feel much more comfortable with a gun in my hand.  Now, may I assume Julian won't be joining us anytime soon?" Donn asked.

"Not in this life," was Bond's reply.

Donn considered this a moment.

"Well, really it's just one more loose end I won't have to tie up.  I'd hoped to drag this out a little longer, dissect your loved ones before your eyes, and all, but I'm afraid were going to cut things a little short.  You're very tenacious, Mr. Bond.  A normal man wouldn't even be able to stand after what you've been through, much less kill a full-grown adversary, or even walk.  I've no intentions of attempting to tie you back down myself, I think a bullet to the head would be much more efficient.  I'll just leave you with the happy thought that before I leave Corsica, I'm going to kill them all.  The good doctor, Feale, the old man, they're all going to die.  Now, get on your knees!"

James Bond didn't move right away.

"And then what happens to you?" Bond asked.

Donn frowned.

"Delaying tactics, 007?  How droll.  Now, get on your knees, don't think I'm going to get close enough to you for you to try any closed combat.  Either you get on your knees or I'm going to shoot them out from underneath you."

"Fire away then, you bastard," Bond spat back at him.  "Dieing on your knees is for cowards who kill children with bombs."

This brought a quick flush of anger to Colleen's face, and for a moment Bond thought he might attempt to lash out with the butt of the gun, stepping in close enough to strike out, but then the hatred quickly subsided, and the man in a woman's body laughed.

"Sporting try, Mr. Bond, but in the end it won't matter."  Donn was walking around Bond's backside.  "Now, how did that go?  Was it two to the base of the skull?  Yes, I do believe it was."

Bond waited for the bullets to come; the bullets that would end the pain.

What he got instead was a deafening explosion that shook the ground, and nearly toppled him.

* * *

There was no helping it, Donn instinctively turned toward the source of the blast, and saw the small plume of smoke rising several hundred meters away down the side of the mountain from which the main path arose.  The explosion deafened him for a few moments, the sounds of the _maquis_ and the recoil being lost in the thumping and drumming of his own pulse within his eardrums.

When he turned back to where Bond had been a few moments earlier, he was gone.  Off into the woods like the hunted creature he was.  After a few moments, during which he checked the clip in Feale's Springfield to make sure he was well equipped, the pounding in his head began to be replaced again by the drone of the woods.

He wanted to scream in frustration, but he wouldn't give Bond the pleasure, but he did shout.

"That was your rescue party, Mr. Bond!" he called out to the woods.  There wasn't much need to taunt the man, he didn't need him to reveal himself, but it was still fun.  There was enough blood dripping from the man's wounds that a child could have followed the path.  "I'd be careful where you step as well, it's dangerous to play hide and seek in a minefield, you know.  It's just the two of us, now!"

* * *

James Bond ran the best he could, limping into the underbrush, concentrating on little more than putting distance between himself and the assassin.  Distance equalled time, and time equalled the opportunity to find somewhere to seek shelter, and to find something to fight back with.

He was painfully aware he was going to be easy to follow, just as he was aware that his head was lightening from the exertion of dragging himself through the _maquis._  The thin air, the blood loss, and the lingering traces of drugs in his system were taking a heavy toll on his weakened state.  His eyes were concentrating on the ground in front of him, watching for any possible areas of recent concealment such as disturbed earth, or an unnatural piling of leaves or twigs.  The uneven ground of the mountainside already made the going treacherous on his battered body and there were some precarious points where falling would have been as fatal as a landmine.  There were a few times he had to wrench his body to one side to avoid a suspicious outcropping at the last moment, but he was careful not to cry out, no matter what the pain.

Shouts rang out behind him, and he attempted to ignore them, and drive on, but his thoughts were falling back to Marc-Ange.  Certainly he would have come to Bond's aide himself; he wouldn't trust such a thing solely to his men.  Had Bond's choice to come to Corsica doomed the man, just as he'd doomed his daughter?  Maybe he would have been better to take the bullets than to continue on through a life where he continuously played the grim reaper to those he loved.   But such thoughts were little more than static to his body that continued to do what it did best, survive.  

That strange time warp of running through the _maquis_ took its toll again, and soon he wasn't sure if he had been going for five minutes, or half an hour, but at some point he did stumble onto the plateaued clearing that held the graveyard.

Actually, graveyard would have been a complement.  When compared with the beauty and elegance of the burial ground he and Toussaint had spied on the hillside a few days earlier, this was nothing more than a collection of stones and shallow graves.  The one exception was a large, ornate granite mausoleum that immediately caught Bond's eye.  He actually took a few valuable seconds pondering how they could have negotiated the huge stone slabs up the side of the mountain.  When he considered the thing looked to be many, many decades old, the feat was even more astounding.

  The other graves were nothing more than pits, blasted, or pick axed, out of the rock of the mountain, and then loosely covered with the discarded stones.  These shallow graves surrounded the magnificent structure like macabre satellites.

How much of a lead had he gained on Donn?  A few minutes, maybe ten at the most.  His mind quickly spun through the possibilities, and a not too distant memory brought a glimmer of hope to him.

At first, he pried in vain at the heavy slab serving as a door for the tomb, but even in top condition, he doubted if he could have budged it, and in his present state, it was hopeless.  Looking about, he found a large rock piled onto one of the graves.  This he hefted, an effort that caused the blood to fountain forth from his wound at an alarming rate.

_Just how much blood is there in a human body,_ he wondered, his mind beginning to wander.  For a moment, he almost forgot why he was carrying the stone, but then things snapped back into place.

It took several tries, and for a while, it looked as if the granite door would win, whittling his hammer stone slowly to rubble.  When the door finally crumbled, he was rewarded with a deep crushing sound as the opening fell in upon itself.  

The inside of the structure was thick with must and the air was almost unbreathable, but he had little time to waste.

If Donn were correct in his thinking, then many of these graves would have belonged to shepherds who had not come to a natural end, and if that were the case, then it would follow they might not have been buried alone.  With little need for decorum, Bond searched the aged corpse on the first shelf he came to.  There were dried flowers and a few dilapidated slips of paper that may have been from a doting wife or children, but nothing of use to him.  The body on the shelf below offered little more.

He was beginning to give up hope when he turned to the pile of bones on the first shelf on the opposite wall.  There, next to the body, were two ornate blades, vendetta knives for which Corsican metal workers were famed.  

When he stepped back into the sunlight, and the thankfully fresh air, Bond quickly assessed the weapons.  The blades were rusted and somewhat dulled from their time in the mausoleum, but the points were sharp and they would still be effective if handled properly.  He wavered there for a moment, his equilibrium threatening to challenge his consciousness.

"Not yet," he muttered encouragement to himself.  He took one of the aged blades, and poked his arm with it hard enough to draw yet another thin trail of blood.  He forced himself to focus on that one small font of pain, to sharpen his mind for one last attack.  There would be plenty of time for dying later.

* * *

Donn cut the vegetation silently as he entered the plateau, the gun leading the way.    

He hadn't been disappointed; Bond had certainly lived up to his reputation as being hard to kill.  He was fearfull he might never find the body, that Bond might have crawled off like a wounded animal somewhere to die.  Lord knows the _maquis;_ even this high up, could swallow a body with little trace in a very short period of time.

The sight of the graveyard greeted Donn with the same view it had afforded Bond a few minutes before.  After a cursory glance at the graves, his focus turned to the mausoleum, with its crushed door.

"James," he said aloud.  "It would appear as if you have huffed and puffed, and blown the door in.  He approached the entrance with the outstretched gun before him, and peered inside the musty, shadowed chamber.  He didn't really know what he expected to find, maybe some feeble trap designed by a desperate, dying man, or maybe something as simple as a crumpled body on the ground.

And prophetically, there before him on the cold granite floor of the tomb, concealed in the dimmed and murky light, was a body.  He could tell immediately it was too weathered, and much too clothed to be Bond.  He craned his head inside of the structure, noticing too late that all of the shelves were already taken, and that the body on the floor had obviously been tossed there recently.

His back had been exposed to the scattering of graves behind him as he peered into the darkness.  Donn heard a small rumble of displaced stones, and then a whooshing sound as the knife cut the air and imbedded itself into the back of his skull.

Stunned, but not quite incapacitated, he turned and fired.

* * *

Bond didn't have to lie in the grave long, which was a good thing.  He'd quickly uncovered the body, and then discarded it by tossing it into the tomb.  Lying in the grave, he'd covered himself with the rocks as best he could.   The cold ground was comforting, and there were times where he could have easily nodded off and slipped away while asleep, but he wasn't going to leave work undone. 

If Donn had looked more carefully, he'd certainly have noticed the haphazard looking gravesite, but the assassin had been hot for the kill and gone straight for the mausoleum, just as Bond had hoped.

James Bond had lain there in the earth, watching the rock-filtered shadows of his stalker pass by his hiding place, and then he'd counted to twenty, sat up, and thrown the knife with everything he'd had left.

He'd aimed for the hollow cleft at the base of the skull, where the spine raised to meet the cranium; a near sure kill shot.  The target hadn't been more than a few meters away, and yet he'd missed it.  Major Boothryod would not have been impressed.

Whether it was the weathered, misbalanced knife, Colleen's thick ponytail deflecting the blade, or his own impaired throw, the results hadn't been good enough.  Bond watched as the blade buried itself into his assailant's skull.  Certainly, without help quickly, it would be a fatal blow, but Donn was able to clumsily spin about a fire a reflexive shot.

The round took a chunk out of Bond's left arm as it passed and threw him back into the grave, where this time he lay gasping for breath.  Gasping, but still holding the knife in his good right hand.  He coughed in the dirt; groaning, and preying the bastard would get close enough to allow him one last chance.

He watched from his lying position as Donn reached back and felt the hilt of the knife extending from the base of his skull, and then attempted to take a step toward Bond.  The assassin's legs deserted him, and he fell face first into the dirt.

"Nice throw," he grunted at Bond in his sickening, half-woman voice.  "I guess you don't have as good of aim when someone isn't on their knees."

He couldn't see Donn now, not without sitting up, and he wasn't going to chance giving the thing a clean shot at him.  He could hear the Irishman scrambling across the ground, attempting to regain his feet.

Finally, Donn was there above him, wavering like a tree in high wind, the gun in his hand the only steady thing about his person.

"Looks like neither of us are going to make it out of this one, Mr. Bond," Donn said.

Bond mumbled a response through his shallow breaths.

"What was that?" the assassin had leaned in a little closer to catch the words.

"You first," he said clearly this time.  There was a brief look of shock in Donn's eyes as Bond reached out through a daze and slashed at the perfect, beautiful face before him.  The weapon opened an ugly gash across Colleen's features and Donn screamed in agony with his freakish voice.

The gun came to bear again, and Bond met its promise with his eyes wide open.

"Won't you just die?!" the thing that had once been Peter O'Sullivan shrieked.

There was a gunshot, and a neat hole appeared just above Colleen's left breast.  After a few moments of initial shock, he fell backward into the dirt.

There were footsteps, and finally Marc-Ange's face swam out of the gloom above him.

"Bitch," he said, as he fired the gun again.  Bond couldn't see, but he knew this one would be a professional shot to the head.

There was a grim look on his father-in-law's face that became even darker when he looked at Bond.

"Good God, James," he said.  "Look at what they've done to you."

"I've been better," he croaked back, bringing a fit of coughing that felt uncomfortably wet.  "What about Che Che?"

Marc-Ange Draco shrugged his shoulders.  

"He's still breathing, and he's a tough bastard, just like his father.  Your friends, the _Inglese_, should be able to lift the two of you out of here with those beautiful helicopters of theirs.  They wanted to come barrelling in here with those damn things and start shooting up the whole place, but we convinced them the psychopath would probably kill both of you when he heard the first hint of propellers."

_And he would have,_ Bond thought.

"The mines?" he mumbled, beginning to slip away as Toussaint's face joined Draco's above him.

The little Corsican laughed.

"The bastard planted mines like a Frenchman," he said.

Bond wanted to laugh as well, but Marc-Ange shushed him.  Toussaint had a brief conversation over a handheld radio, presumably with the helicopter pilot, and then all was quiet until the whooshing of the giant blades filled his ears.


	14. Hell to Pay

**_Epilogue: Hell to Pay_**

**__**

                Someone in the hospital administration of the medical school at Marseille had a sadistic sense of humour, James Bond had decided.

          The surgeons had been quite adamant about what he was to do, and not to do, in order to facilitate the healing of his wounds.  They'd done what they could, spending hours picking through and removing the shards of glass from his skin, flushing and sanitizing the wound to his groin, and then performing the basic surgery needed to piece his arm and the rest back together.  The more complicated and cosmetic repairs were to be performed back in London.

          "Try to avoid any unnecessary excitement," the small, pinch-faced French doctor Pierpont had told him.  Bond had wanted to laugh out loud, remembering how Che Che had given him a similar warning just a few days before.  But as he found with most Frenchman, this man spoke in a condescending tone of voice, almost as if he found Bond's injuries to be self-inflicted, and something more than an inconvenience to his valuable time.

          Back then the idea had seemed ludicrous.  He was going to be relieving himself through a tube for the next several weeks, and this man was warning him not to become aroused.  But on his first morning in his semi-private ward, nurse Angelette had walked through his door to help him with his morning routine of bathing and changing his wounds' dressings.

          Che Che, who was the reason for the "semi" in his accommodations, had been in the next bed, snickering from beneath his mountain of casts and bandages, as the aptly named Angelette had gone about her business.

          Bond had to wonder, and not for the first time in his life, why French women were wasted on Frenchmen.  As a people, he still found them aloof, and lacking in the cultural humility they'd certainly deserved over the years, but there were inner and outer beauties to the women that couldn't be hidden, even for all the pretentious worship to glamour and the bombastic, ridiculous fashions.

          She had glided into the room, greeted the men in French with a soft, breathy voice (the only words either man would hear her speak for more than two days), and quickly pulled the privacy curtain about Bond's hospital bed.  Angelette was quick and professional, sparing Bond any pretence at bedside manner, or mock sympathetic overtones.  She didn't gasp when she removed the dressings, and her gloved hands, although gentle when necessary, did not betray their purpose.

          But Bond's sedated mind wasn't nearly as professional.  The words "any unnecessary excitement" were quickly swept away as his eyes carefully assessed the astounding woman wrapped in white before him.  Her skin and eyes were dark, possibly betraying a little Spanish or Portuguese blood, and yet her face still maintained the translucent glow French women were known the world over for.  Her figure was a little slighter than what he would normally would have been attracted to, but from what he could see of her arms and calves, she was trim and muscular beneath the uniform.  Most likely it was from tennis, or possibly running.

          The sedatives took some of the subtlety off Bond's game, but the uncomfortable quiet of the woman as she went about handling him was unnerving.  He had to speak to her.

          "Do you play sports, Nurse…. Facet?" he asked as he clumsily read her nametag.

          His awkwardness was rewarded with a titter from the direction of Che Che's bed beyond the curtain.

          Thankfully, Angelette pretended to ignore the laughter, but she didn't verbally respond to Bond's question either, she just offered him a small, warm smile that did more for Bond's mental health than all of the doctors he'd seen over the past day and a half.

          After she'd finished and left, Che Che had been merciless on Bond.

          ""Do you play sports?"" he had mocked Bond's accent in French.  "Good God, James, I know some of these people.  You're going to destroy my perfectly good reputation if you keep carrying on in this manner."

          Bond suggested that Che Che should do something that was physically impossible to himself, even when healthy.

          "You would think," the agent continued.  "While the bastard was breaking everything else, he could at least have broken your jaw."

          Che Che had found out her name through one of the orderlies he knew, but the girl herself remained silent on her second shift with the two men the following morning.

          On his first day out of surgery, Bond had been limited to official guests only, and he wasn't entirely surprised to find Bill Tanner had been the man to show up at his bedside.  The Chief of Staff had been limited in what he could disclose, with Che Che being within hearing range, and the doctors had left no room for argument with their assertions neither man should be moved or disturbed in any fashion.

          After some small talk about the quality of food in the hospital and the extent of his wounds (conversations the two men had shared more than a dozen times, in similar circumstances and surroundings over the years), Tanner had gotten down to details.

          "I'm afraid we've caused a little bit of a stir," Bill had begun.  "When we requested clearance for French airspace for the Apaches, we were supposed to keep a low profile.  Even with the new attitude of co-operation, they didn't want to let it get out to the press we were conducting any kind of operation on their territory.  And then we land one of our units on top of this hospital during the dinner hour in the middle of Marseille.  The old man has taken some gruff on this one."

          Bond could imagine M waiting patiently for his return: yet another international incident that was not his fault that would certainly _be_ his fault.

          Tanner had continued for nearly half an hour, giving him the unclassified version of events.  So far, the IRA hadn't made any noise regarding Donn, although certainly Feale would have forwarded her version of events to the appropriate parties by now.

          "If she comes to see you, try to feel her out on what she may have said to them.  They're not going to clear the two of you for guests for at least another day."

          Bond tried to picture her frame of mind, knowing he'd been the one to disable her, and deny her.

          "Could you do me a favour, Bill, and make sure she gets scanned before putting a foot inside this room?"

          Tanner had frowned at this.

          "I'm sure we'll wait with bated breath for your initial report on this one, James."

          The "we" would be M, and Bond was certain he was going to be hearing about his dalliance with an IRA operative the very moment he was done hearing about the incurrence into French airspace, and probably just before he would hear about how M's fears regarding his father-in-law had not only been justified, but may have been a gross understatement.

          Tanner placed his hand on Bond's shoulder.

          "Quit looking like an old man planning his funeral.  I think you've done a pretty good job of callusing M up over the years.  I seriously doubt if there's anything you could do that would surprise him, and yet he keeps sending you out in the field.  A few months of transitional duty…"

          Bond groaned; more deskwork, more boredom, no assignments.

          "… and you'll be on your feet again.  Moneypenny has taken over the preparations for your cosmetic work.  She's done her homework, and made sure the best in the field are going to be placing you back together.  You could say she's taken a personal interest in your case."

          "I'm sure she has," was all he could say.  Their flirtations were the stuff of legend around the office.

          There was a brief knock at the door, and Angelette scooted into the room for her first visit of the day.  Tanner paused a moment to look her up and down, and then glanced back at him, before standing to leave.

          "Either way, I'm sure they'll have you back up and at them in no time at all," he said with a grin.

          _Funny,_ Bond thought about his current condition, as Angelette began to go about her routine and he began to go about the torturous process of trying not to respond to her touch, _it was funny as hell.  _

* * *

          Visitor hours began at seven a.m. the next morning, and through the doors like a race horse out of the gates came Marie.  Her face flushed and life leaping out from her every move as she skirted across the floor to Che Che's bedside.

          "Do you know there are guards outside your room, and they accosted me with a metal detector as if I were going to …"

          A gasp escaped her throat as she took in the extent of the giant's injuries.

          "What have they done to you?" she cried in what must have been her best B-actress voice.  Bond braced himself for the wailing to come, and this time, there would be no escape.

          "Shut up and kiss me," Che Che told her in a voice that held strength the body itself was surely missing.  Marie fumbled for a few moments, sucking in tears, trying to find the best way to perch herself next to the man so she could reach his mouth with her own, and yet not cause him any further pain.

          His eyes, and his lower jaw, were about the only skin visible to the open air, but he made fine work of the latter as the two consummated their reunion with the joining of their lips.

          Bond had second-guessed himself a few times for passing on Marie's affections before he'd come to know Che Che better, but seeing the two of them together drove any lingering thoughts away.  The chemistry was obvious, and he was certain if the casts and bandages were not between them, the biology would have been just as apparent.  The kissing lasted for quite some time, and Bond was tempted to clear his throat, or offer them the use of the privacy curtain, but he still felt guilty for Che Che's current state, and the least he could do was tend his own business.  James Bond did the only thing he could; he turned his head and averted his eyes as the two lovers whispered to one another about recovery and nuptials, and somewhere in the process he slipped off to sleep.

          And soon a hand was shaking him awake.  He opened his eyes to find the smiling face of Marc-Ange looking down on him.

          "I hate to wake you, but I am afraid, James, that I cannot stay too long.  My face is well known in France, and I am none too safe here."

          Bond turned his head back to Che Che's bed.  Marie was gone, now, but her place had been taken by what appeared to be half the population of _Monte Paese_, gathered about his bedside so thick that Bond couldn't even make out the form of his friend laying there.  There was, however,  one noticeable party missing.

          "Where's Feale?" he asked his father-in-law.

          The old man's smile faded.

          "Perhaps it would be best not to dwell on her, James.  She is a very divided, and dangerous, woman.  When I saw her last she was preparing to leave the compound, and I think it would be intelligent for all of us if we just let her walk away."

          He reached out and grabbed the aged hand, giving it a firm squeeze.

          Draco shook his head.

          "I feel like such a foolish, old man, being used so.  A young man would have looked upon the scars on his lover with more suspicion, but an old man is told some feeble story about a car accident in her childhood, and he blindly is led along by the lies, just to be allowed to be next to such a beautiful thing.  Even if others are unaware of what happened, the shame will be there within me until the day I pass."

          _So much the Corsican,_ Bond thought.  _He wasn't worried about Feale, or Bond's injuries, he wasn't worried about any moral ramifications of having been duped into making love to what had been a man, nor was he concerned about the bodies littering his home the past few days.  No, Marc-Ange was worried about saving face, his reputation.  _Bond didn't habour these thoughts with any ill feelings, however.  This was who the man was, and Bond respected and loved him for it.

          They spoke for a few moments, sharing the kinds of things that those who are close, but only see each other once in a great while, do.

          Finally, Draco gave a sharp whistle, and the assembled villagers made their farewells to both men and left the room.  Now, it was only Marc-Ange and the two of them.

          "I brought someone special with me," he said.  

          Into the room strolled Curtuis, Emiliano's son, looking about as devastated as a young man was capable.

          "I wanted to leave him with his mother, she will need him more than ever now, but he insisted on coming," Marc-Ange informed them. 

          Bond looked over to Che Che, who over the past day and a half had informed him of the depth of Emiliano's treachery, and how the other man had met his end.  The giant was obviously having a hard time finding his voice.  Bond knew from their conversations that Che Che was like an uncle to his friend's children.

          Bond used the finger pad attached to his bed to painfully raise himself to a near-seated position.  

          "Curt," Che Che began awkwardly.  "What brings you here?"

          The boy, who possessed the bluntness of all children, did not hesitate.

          "How did my father die?" he asked in Corsican.  "I need to know."  Some of the words were lost to Bond, but the general idea was plain enough.

          Marc-Ange stood silent in the background as Bond once again turned to Che Che in deference.  Bond knew there must be a fairly good reason the boy was asking; he was old enough to suspect something may have been wrong in his father's dealings with the foreigners, and maybe, much like his older Corsican counterpart, Marc-Ange, he was worried about his family's face if his father's treachery became known.  Or, much more likely, Bond realised, maybe he had the beginnings of his own vendetta forming in his heart.

          After a few more moments of silence, Bond decided he couldn't let Che Che answer the child.  What might have been a cathartic unloading for the giant may have been the beginning of another life of hatred for the young boy.

          "Your father died fighting a monster," he blurted out in French.

          The boy, who must have been eleven or twelve, turned to Bond as if insulted.

          "A monster?" he continued sarcastically in French.  "This monster wouldn't happen to be "the bitch" Marc-Ange keeps cursing, would it?"

          Bond laughed, despite himself, and Draco looked even more embarrassed than he had a few moments before.

          "Yes," Bond informed him.  "It most certainly would."

          There was some more talk, and a difficult goodbye when Marc-Ange lightly hugged Bond and kissed him high on both cheeks.  And then the two of them were alone again.

* * *

          During their afternoon session, Angelette finally spoke to Bond after two days of silence.

          "Your wounds are beginning to heal," she told him, in very passable English, shocking him out of his state of painful concentration.

          "You speak," he said to her incredulously.

          She shrugged her shoulders.

          "I was raised to only talk when I had something to say.  People tend to listen more carefully when you don't fill the air with useless words."  Then she was silent again, but it was too late, the spell had been broken.  And her touch had brought him to painful life.

          "Oh," she muttered aloud, as he grimaced in agony.  "Didn't the doctor tell you, avoid…"

          "Unnecessary excitement," he grunted in reply.  "But, I assure you, Nurse Facet, this was very necessary."

          The girl smiled, and then blushed deeply at his words, remaining quiet throughout the remainder of her work.

          Soon, the evening fell, and Bond knew he'd be back in England by the next nightfall, in yet another hospital.  Che Che was snoring loudly through his re-broken nose.

          "I might have a straight nose for the first time since I was eight," he'd confessed to Bond over their respective dinners (Che Che had to have his fed to him by one of the orderlies).

          Bond, however, couldn't bring himself to doze off.  He'd abandoned the hope of seeing Feale again, and yet her beautiful face haunted his memory in the long shadows of the hospital ward at night.  These thoughts, combined with his concerns about returning to England, had created a surreal mishmash of a sleepless evening.  

There was a window near his bed, and from what he could tell; they were several storeys up, with some kind of courtyard down below.  The light shifted constantly through the window, and he'd decided there must be trees out there, waving back and forth in the moonlight.  This rocking, combined with his sedatives, was weaving him into a dream.

          In the dream, there was a figure at the window; a figure of a woman dressed entirely in black.  Bond smiled at the image, she had a quite fetching body, although her features were still in shadow as she began to work at the window frame from the outside.

          The glass eventually slid upward, and the beautiful girl slid gracefully through the opening.  Her shoes made soft _tic, tic, tic_ noises as she crossed the floor to his bed.  James Bond continued to smile in his near dream, as the woman bent to him.  She wore no scent, but as her lips came to his, he could catch the brief aroma of rich, vanilla-laced coffee, the taste of which followed as their mouths met.  He reached behind her head with his hands, running them through the short hair that would have been dark red if not for the disguising moonlight, as he continued to work her mouth with his own.  Finally, after several minutes, during which his senses returned to complete wakefulness, some painfully so, their lips parted.

          "I thought you would hate me," she said to him softly as Che Che continued his sleeping serenade from the next bed.  "You have to believe me, I didn't know what he'd do to you, I told you to come back with me."

          There was honest distress in her hushed voice, and he kissed her again to drive the fears away.

          "I'm no more angry than you appear to be.  I denied you your chance at getting back at Peter," he said.

          She pulled back enough to look him in the eyes, now running her own hand through his hair, absently playing with the comma that always insisted on falling above his eye.

          "I was angry, still am, to tell the truth.  But when I calmed down, I figured you were only trying to protect me.  It may piss me off that you would think I would need protecting, but I appreciate it all the same."  She leaned into their next kiss, as if to demonstrate that appreciation.

          Bond stirred, and fresh pain greeted him.

          "I'm afraid things aren't going to end properly.  That is what this is, isn't it?  An ending?" he asked.

          She nodded.  She'd been kneeling on the floor, and now Feale laid her head on Bond's chest, being careful not to brush up against his wounded arm.  Now, she was looking up at his face.

          "I'm going back to Saint Pete's," she told him.  "With Tom gone, Maelisa won't be able to handle it by herself.  I figure there's still a place, and a cause, for me there."

          This troubled Bond, and he made no attempt to conceal it.

          "And will Saint Peter's continue to be what it was?" he queried.

          She kissed him again, but failed to remove the look of concern on his face.

          "I haven't asked you to turn from your country, James," she told him.  "I know you're not going to abandon Mother England to run off with a poor slip of an Irish girl, so don't expect me to do the same for you."

          She was right, he knew, and it may have been hypocritical of him, but he still had difficulty thinking of this warm, beautiful woman in his arms as a killer.  For a brief moment, there was a flash of duty in his mind, a thought saying he might be better of snapping her neck right here.  He might save countless English lives if he did so, possibly the lives of his friends and colleagues, perhaps his own.  But the murderous idea quickly burnt itself out.  There was little doubt in his mind she would have weighed the same concerns regarding him, and yet, here she was.

          He just hoped her face would never show up in a file before him on M's desk, nor in front of any other 00.

          They kissed once again, this time with the hunger and passion of two people who knew their time together was passing.

          "Thank you," she whispered to him as she stood.

          He remained silent as she turned away.

          "You won't have to worry about reprisals from us," she told him while walking back to the window.  "I get the idea the Sein Fenn aren't interested in advertising how their poster child met his end."

          He started to say it didn't surprise him, but she was already gone.

          "So, you will come to the wedding then?"

          Che Che seemed ungodly cheerful for someone who would remain in the hospital for the next several months, with the spectre of years of painful physical therapy looming in the distance.

          Bond had been switched to a gurney that was being wheeled, much to his pleasure, by Angelette Facet.  Tanner, and several other agents, were waiting just outside the door for him.  They'd collected his few personals from Marc-Ange Draco, and now a transport helicopter was waiting on the roof of the hospital; waiting to whisk them all to the airport, and then back to grey, old London.

          "Six months?  I'll be there.  By then, maybe you'll be ready to give me a rematch with the chicken."

          Nurse Facet frowned at this, as if both men had gone briefly mad.

          "But what will I do for a date?" Bond asked his friend.

          Che Che thought for a moment.

          "I'm sure Marc-Ange could find someone," he said.

          Bond looked back at the beautiful nurse whose face floated above his own.  She'd always worn her hair up before this, but today it was down, a glorious dark brown wave flowing from her scalp to her mid-back.

          "So, how about it, Nurse Facet?  Do you have any plans six months from now?"

          There was little surprise for either man in her silence, but then she bent forward and lightly brushed her lips against Bond's.  There wasn't nearly the heat there had been the night before with Feale, but there was the promise of passion to come.

          James Bond glanced back for one last look at his friend.  Much of Che Che was hidden, but there was shock in his eyes, and his mouth stood open in disbelief.

          As she began to wheel him forward, she cooed softly.

          "I wouldn't miss is for the world."


End file.
